


The Beast of Brooklyn

by ArtemisRayne



Category: Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast Fusion, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Bad Parenting, Ballet Dancer Race, Beauty and the Beast Elements, Bilingual Character(s), Blind Character, Character Death, Dad Friend Jack, Families of Choice, Gun Violence, Heavy Angst, Homophobic Language, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mom Friend Davey, Organized Crime, References to Depression, Spot Conlon is Bad at Feelings, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Underage Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-07-11 03:52:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 94,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15964118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtemisRayne/pseuds/ArtemisRayne
Summary: Racetrack Higgins always thought it would be his own vices that got him into trouble one day; turns out it's his Ma who does it for him. When Ma Higgins crosses the local drug lord and leaves him high and dry with a target on his back, Race's saved by a mysterious stranger who gives him a safe place to hide. A short-tempered and anti-social stranger covered in horrifying scars with a past as dark as the marks on his body. However, the longer Race spends in the Brooklyn house, the more he comes to discover about the boy beneath the scars - a boy who is just as trapped as Race and twice as damaged.Befriending the two men who live in as hired help, and chipping away at the mysterious "boss" and his walls, Race might even manage to find a new place to call home.*Beauty & the Beast/Beastly AU fusion*





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So when I finished "Stars" I asked folks which of my (multiple) AU stories they would be interested in seeing. There was a fairly even tie between Beauty and the Beast fusion and Rom-Com so... I sort of did both? The shape of this story has been inspired by the 2011 film "Beastly," which is one of my trashy guilty pleasures. And while it's ultimately a cheesy love story, we will be touching on some seriously adult themes, so keep an eye out for the TWs. On that note: 
> 
> *TW - references to drug use & minor depictions of violence. 
> 
> As always with my stuff, this is musical-based. (I'm super nervous about writing an entirely Sprace-centric story considering that, but you guys seemed to enjoy the way I wrote Sprace in "Stars" so here goes nothing.)

Antonio Higgins always thought it would be his adrenaline junkie nature that would get him into trouble one day. He's never met a gamble he won't take or a dare he won't do. There isn't a line he won't push, screw the consequences. He is always first to try something new, something dangerous, and the harder the chase, the more he wants it. Risk is his life-blood.

In the end, though, it isn't _his_ vices that get him into the deep end; it's his ma's. His damned ma, who copes with her feelings through a needle, all 'junkie' without any of the 'adrenaline' part. Who cares more about her next high than her own kid. Who crosses the wrong dealer and gets a bull's eye painted onto both their backs for it. Who takes off with nothing more than a scribbled note in apology.

So Tony does what he does best: he runs. After all, they don't call him Racetrack for nothing.

It's hard to run from someone who's got eyes everywhere from Battery Park to the Bronx, but he really thought he'd given them the slip when he crossed the bridge. He was hoping that they wouldn't dare follow him out of their territory. It was a painful reality check to step off the train in Brooklyn and find a car already waiting for him outside the station. Apparently, he underestimated how bad they want him.

His heart hammers against his ribs as he darts through the streets of Brooklyn Heights, doing everything he can to put more space between himself and the pursuers he knows are just around the block. Race had hoped to get the upper hand by leading the men out of their area, but the downside is that Race is out of his comfort zone too, all of his familiar hideaways and alleys back in Lower Manhattan. He's been running for what feels like hours now, he can't keep going like this forever, and his breath is catching painfully in his chest as the panic rises.

A car streaks out of an alley ahead of him, skidding to a stop across the sidewalk, and Race staggers as he attempts a hasty backtrack. When he turns, there's another car sliding to a stop against the curb and two guys bail out; one has a large knife, the other a set of heavy brass knuckles. Race feels his stomach jump up into his throat, the fear nauseating.

"Hey there, twinkle toes," says the guy climbing from the driver's seat of the car parked on the sidewalk. His ugly brown suit is strained by his paunch, and his balding head contrasted by a bushy mustache. Race generally tries to stay as far out of his ma's business as he can, but he still recognizes her dealer. The Weasel is the kingpin of all things dirty in the tri-borough. "Gotta say, you gave us a helluva chase."

"Look, leave me outta this," Race says, holding out his hands in surrender. "You got a problem with my ma, that's her thing. I don't have anything to do with it." The blow to his back sends him to his knees, the nerves between his shoulder blades screaming at the force of the impact. Definitely brass knuckles boy, then. Race coughs, struggling to get his breath back.

"Yeah, see, that's not how these things work," Weasel says, leaning against the door of his car and rolling a toothpick through his teeth. "Because your momma owes me a helluva lot of money and took off without paying me back. I don't appreciate that. After everything I done for her, cuttin' her deals, and this is how she treats me? Backstabbin' me like that? Nah, that ain't nice."

"Going after me isn't going to do anything," Race counters, scowling. "I can't pay you neither."

Weasel nods and this punch catches Race in the side of the head, knocking him flat. He tastes blood from where his teeth cut into his cheek, and his vision on that side has gone a bit fuzzy. "This isn't about collecting from you," says Weasel menacingly, pushing off the car to loom over Race. "I know your punk ass don't have my money. No, you're just - _incentive_."

Race scoffs and spits blood onto the sidewalk. "Then you're definitely barking up the wrong tree," he growls. "She don't give a fuck 'bout me."

"Maybe, maybe not," Weasel says, shrugging. "But maybe it'll teach her a lesson 'bout what happens to dirty double-crossers. Whaddya say we find out?"

Weasel gestures pointedly, and a sharp boot slams into Race's ribs. A second kick is strong enough to flip Race onto his back, his head smacking off the pavement. Snarling, Race kicks out and manages to get one of the guys in the leg. He scrambles backward, trying to give himself defensive space, and uses the wall at his back to pull himself up. He can do this. He's been in fights before.

A swing at his face is easy to duck. Race brings his arm up to knock aside the hand holding the knife when it comes at him, although it does manage to carve a burning line around his forearm. He sinks a punch of his own into knife boy's gut, but the guy manages to snag Race's wrist with his other hand. He spins Race sharply, pinning his arms behind his back, and that's when the boys really get to work.

Race grits his teeth through the barrage of blows, fighting to pull free. He stomps on the guy's feet - and _ow_ , he's definitely wearing steel-toes - and struggles against the grip on his arms. In response, the guy shoves Race's arms up further on his back, and his shoulders scream as they're twisted frighteningly close to dislocation.

Despite his best attempts to not let them know they're getting to him, the fifth hit from the brass knuckles results in a sharp crack in his side and Race cries out. It takes a lot of the fight out of him, every breath searing through his ribs, and all he can do is lock his jaw and ride it out. When he's finally deposited in a boneless heap on the floor of the alley, Race feels a sense of pale resignation steal over him: he's going to die.

"This oughta do it," Weasel says with an oily grin, crouching down, and he pulls out his phone to take a quick photo. He spins it around in his palm, showing Race the slightly pixelated image of his bloodied and swollen face. "Think your momma will get the hint from that?"

Race grunts and lets his head fall back onto the concrete. "Ugh, _vaffanculo_. Wouldja stop monologuing and just kill me already?" he says sarcastically, pleased his voice only comes out a little slurred. "Unless you're tryna bore me to death, 'cause you're real close to that."

Weasel chuckles. "You know, it's a shame, kid," he muses thoughtfully. "You got spirit. Workin' for me, that kinda nerve could getcha someplace." He holds out a hand, and one of his guys passes over the knife. Race lets his body go loose, closing his eyes; he's not about to watch it happen. "Too bad your mom's a bitch."

There's a sudden roar of an engine, followed by shouts and footsteps as people scatter. Race flinches as something heavy scrapes across the ground directly beside his head, peppering him with bits of gravel. When he opens his eyes, all he can see is a tire and one black workboot. He rolls away from what he can now tell is a motorcycle, ignoring the pain in his abdomen as he scrambles to put some space between them. The rider - dressed all in black with a helmet completely covering their face - turns toward him and holds out a gloved hand in a silent request.

Race hesitates for only a fraction of a second, weighing his options; mystery motorcyclist or death by drug dealers? Yeah, not a difficult wager. Awkwardly hauling himself up with the other's help, Race swings a leg over the bike. The rider guns the accelerator and Race throws his arms around the person's torso to stop himself sliding off the back. As the bike tears out of the alley, Race can hear Weasel bellowing threats at his back.

The motorcycle weaves in and out of the late night traffic expertly, carrying them several blocks away in a matter of seconds with no sign of slowing. "Who are you?" Race asks, but if the rider hears him over the rush of wind and engine, they don't answer. Just as he's starting to get nervous, wondering where this guy - because beneath the heavy leather jacket, the chest Race's arms are wrapped around is _decidedly_ male - is taking him, the bike turns into a narrow alley he hadn't even noticed and then into a basement garage beneath a building.

As soon as the bike comes to a stop, Race scrambles off and takes several steps back to give himself defensive space, putting the only other vehicle in the garage - a battered Honda coupe that looks older than Race - between them. The rider doesn't seem concerned, taking his time shutting off the bike and dismounting. "Who are you?" Race repeats.

"The fella that just saved your life." The voice, muffled by the helmet, is a startlingly deep growl.

"I-" Race stops up short and swallows. "You're right. Thank you."

The rider pauses and Race thinks he might've surprised him. The other man fidgets with his leather gloves for a second and then says, "Youse welcome to hide out here for a bit 'til you heal up. Got folks can help clean you up. No one's gonna find you here, so you're safe." With that, he turns and heads for the only door.

"Wait," Race says, and the rider hesitates with a hand on the doorknob. "Seriously, who are you? Why'd you save me?" The motorcyclist huffs something that might be a laugh and shakes his head. As he turns the knob, Race tosses out a last-ditch, " _Dai_ , you don't wanna gimme a name, fine, but couldja least take the helmet off so I can say thanks to your face?"

That manages to drag a wry laugh out of the rider. "Ya couldn't handle it." Then he disappears through the door, leaving Race alone in the garage.

Well, _that_ sounds like a challenge if Race's ever heard one...

It's less than five minutes before the door opens again - just long enough for Race to make a lap of the garage and debate with himself whether it's worth the risk to make a run for it (or if he's even in any condition to try). The man standing there looks like he's maybe mid-twenties, tall and broad-shouldered with dark hair and an easy confidence in his movements. His gaze lands on Race and his expression of polite curiosity flickers. "Christ, he wasn't kidding. You got stomped hard, dincha?"

"What, this?" Race asks, raising an eyebrow. He immediately regrets it when the motion triggers a spark of pain in his swelling eye.

The guy chuckles appreciatively, stepping back and holding the door open in welcome. "C'mon, tough guy, let's get ya cleaned up. That arm's bleedin' pretty bad." Race glances down at his arm; veins pumping with adrenaline, he sort of forgot about the knife wound on his arm that's stained the sleeve of his jacket maroon. "The name's Jack Kelly," the man adds when Race steps passed him into a narrow stairwell.

"Tony Higgins, but everyone calls me Race," he replies, following the man up the stairs. They go up two flights, passed a closed up first floor, and then another door lets them out into a large foyer. A door on one side must lead to outside, judging by the darkness beyond the opaque windows, and through a door on the other side is a large room. Jack flicks on a light, illuminating a living room, and Race startles when he sees another man sitting cross-legged on the sofa with a book open in his lap.

"Jesus, Davey," Jack says in a slightly breathless tone that suggests he was surprised too. "S'creepy when you sit in the dark like that, ya know that, right?"

The man on the sofa - Davey, apparently - smiles wryly. "Is it?" Then his head tips slightly, like a curious bird. "You're not alone."

Jack hums. "The boss picked up a stray," he announces, tone somewhere between awed and amused. Davey's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. "Race, this is Davey Jacobs. Davey, meet Race." Gesturing toward the unoccupied end of the sofa, Jack says, "Go ahead and sit down. I'mma go grab the first aid kit."

"You okay?" Davey asks as Race limps over and drops down onto the sofa. It feels good to be off his aching muscles, and he sinks gratefully into the plush cushions.

"Yeah, just made some new friends," Race says sarcastically. He glances sideways at the other man curiously. He's lanky and pale, with carefully-cut dark hair and a prominent nose. His waistcoat and tie are a striking contrast to Jack's worn jeans and T-shirt. Davey's attention is currently on marking the page in his book, setting it aside. "The guy on the motorcycle, he's your boss?"

"Technically speaking, yes, I suppose that'd be the best way to describe it," Davey agrees. He isn't looking directly at Race, eyes focused somewhere an inch or two to the side, and Race figures his face must look even worse than it feels if Davey can't even stomach looking at him. "Not that we actually do a lot in the way of _working_ for him."

"He said ya pissed off The Weasel," Jack says, reappearing in the doorway with a white plastic box in his hands. Race jumps, but Davey doesn't seem surprised. Jack sets his box on the coffee table and then sits down by it. He gestures for Race to take his jacket off, pulling gauze and medical tape from the box. "Must've really ticked him off if he chased ya into Brooklyn. This ain't his territory."

"Weasel?" Davey asks, brow furrowed. "The drug lord? How'd you get tangled up with him?"

Race snorts, although it cuts off in a wince as Jack scrubs a damp washcloth over the cut on his arm. "I ain't in it, it's my ma," he admits. "I just got caught in the crossfire."

Jack winces sympathetically. "That's some nasty crossfire," he remarks. His brow is furrowed in concentration as he wraps the length of gauze around Race's arm. "Well, youse safe here, if you wanna crash for a bit." He hands the washrag to Race so he can clean the blood off his face and hands.

"What is this place?" Race asks, looking around the room. It's nothing flashy, but it's well-furnished and clean in a way his Manhattan apartments have never been. From the outside, the building looked like most of the type in this area; a first-floor shop with a multilevel townhouse above it. The shop appeared abandoned from the street, but the home's got a lived-in look, like people have been here a while.

"I think the boss refers to it as 'The Refuge,'" Davey says with a sardonic smile, "but he's a bit prone to dramatics if you hadn't noticed. This is just where he lives - we all do. The boss keeps mostly to himself, though, he's not great with people." Jack coughs and mutters, " _Understatement_ ," beneath his breath. Davey rolls his eyes but doesn't dispute it.

"What's his deal?" Race asks. Jack is preoccupied with cracking an instant ice pack over his knee, but Davey lifts an eyebrow in question. "I mean, he risked himself saving me from getting killed, brings me here, but then he won't even give me a name or tell me anything."

Davey hums. "Yeah, I've never gotten a name out of him either," he admits. "We just generally call him the boss."

 _Prone to dramatics indeed_ , Race thinks to himself. "And he said something weird, about how I couldn't handle it if I saw him. Is he that full of himself?"

Jack laughs, but the sound is oddly hollow. "Exact opposite, ach'lly," he says. "He was - well, there was a _thing_. I know, don't gimme that look, but he ain't never gave me the whole story. Anyway, it messed him up pretty bad; scars and stuff. He doesn't like people seein' it."

Thinking over that, Race slumps back into the cushions and holds the ice pack against the side of his face that's throbbing worse. "So what're you guys then?" he asks. "Why you here if he don't like people?"

"Hired help," Jack says with a shrug and grin. "I keep up the place. Davey's his tutor."

Davey chuckles. "Although I haven't accomplished much on that front," he says. "He's not exactly interested in studying."

Race doesn't even know what to do with that information. The adrenaline of the night is finally starting to filter away now that he's stopped moving, and he feels exhausted down to his core. It's all too much for one night, between his ma and the drug dealers and now this.

"C'mon, lemme show ya to a room," Jack says, seeming to read the fatigue on his face. "You look like you could use a nap."

"G'night," Davey says to their retreating backs as Race trails behind Jack out into the hall.

Up a set of stairs, they reach a short hall with two doors. "That's my room," Jack says, pausing on the landing to point to one, "in case ya need anything." They go up another floor, and there's a nearly identical layout, a door on either side and a third at the end. "Davey's in that one," Jack supplies, nodding toward the left side. "Bathroom's at the end. And here-" He opens the door on the right and flips the light. "You can sleep here. Oh, shit, lemme go grab some sheets and stuff."

As Jack heads back to the stairs, Race steps into the bedroom curiously. It's relatively large and sparsely furnished, but with the vacant, neglected air of some of the cheap motels he and Ma crashed in between apartments. There's a single bed with a wooden frame, a blank, flat desk, and an empty wardrobe against the wall. It looks like something out of a catalog, like an empty shell that's just been waiting to be filled.

Jack returns with his arms full of bedding, dumping most of it unceremoniously onto the desk and grabbing the sheets. "Nothing about this place makes sense," Race says, giving Jack a daring look as the man moves to make the bed.

To his surprise, Jack just laughs. "Yeah, well," he says and makes a vague hand gesture, "never said it did. But still, if youse lookin' for a place to hide out 'til Weasel drops the heat, you found it." He finishes with the sheet and tosses the pillow and blanket from the desk onto the mattress. Then he produces a bottle of headache medicine from his pocket and offers it out. "You're safe here. Get some sleep, kid, you look dead tired." And with a murmured good-night, Jack closes the door behind him.

Sitting heavily on the mattress - so much softer than the futon he slept on at home - Race downs a couple of the painkillers dry. This is ridiculous. Everything about the entire night is so ludicrous, and he just wants to wake up in the morning in their shitty apartment and find out that it was all a dream. That his entire life hasn't been torn apart for his ma's next fix, and that his best chance at safety isn't hiding out in some house full of weirdos.

Race scoffs. Who's he kidding; dreaming is for suckers anyway. He strips down to his underwear, leaving his dirty and bloodstained clothes in a heap, and flops back into the pillow. Tugging the blanket over himself, Race stares at the ceiling and waits for the pounding in his skull to fade enough for sleep to come.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I tried a thing for the text messages in this, was kind of playing with giving it a proper modern feel (as much as possible with my limited tech-savvy. Lemme know if it's okay or way too extra, I'm not sure how I feel about it.
> 
> Lots of cursing in this chapter, because Race is a feisty boy. Unintentional ableism. Underage smoking. Mild anxiety. Seriously damaged parent-child relationship. I think that's all the warnings...

After a fitful night's sleep, Race wakes to find a string of call and text notifications on his phone from a number he doesn't know. It looks like a New York area code, but whoever it is, he doesn't have them saved in his contacts. Christ, did Weasel get his number? Race hesitates over the button for a second before tapping on the newest voicemail. He's expecting a menacing growl, so it startles him when a breathless, shaking voice comes from the speaker instead.

"Antonio, it's Mamma. Please, _tesoro_ , please just pick up and let me know you're alive. I don't know what to do, it wasn't s'posed to be like this, I didn't think he'd go after you, I just - tell me you're alive. Weasel sent me this picture and I can't - I don't know, I just - you have to be safe, please, _cucciolo_. I need-"

Snarling, Race swipes the voicemail away as a sharp pain goes through his chest. Where the hell does she get off, asking him to be safe after she's the one who put him in all this danger in the first place? She doesn't get to abandon him to his fate and then be concerned. Race dismisses the rest of the voicemails without listening to any of them. He pulls up the texts instead.

They go on like that, over and over at random intervals throughout the night. The most recent one came fifty minutes ago, a simple, plaintive, " _tony plz_." Race deliberates for a second before he taps in the text box to reply.

Before he can even move to set his phone down, the screen suddenly lights up with an incoming call from the mystery number. Is she seriously _calling_ him right now? Does she really think he wants to talk to her, after the shit she pulled? Even if she is his mother...

Race sighs and then slides the button to accept the call. "Whaddya want?"

"Oh thank God, you're alright." The voice that comes out of the speaker is completely wrecked, and it makes something twist in Race's chest. "Jesus, Antonio, I was so worried. Weasel sent me this picture and I just - I knew it couldn't be real."

"It _was_ real," Race snaps back. "'Cause you took off and Weasel beat the shit outta me. He was gonna fuckin' _kill_ me 'cause you took off. So fuck you, you don't getta be worried 'bout me 'cause this is all your damn fault."

"Tony, please," his mom says, and her voice is thick. "I didn't want - this was never s'posed to - I _never_ thought he'd go after you. Look, I'm gonna fix this. I'm gonna square things with him, I promise. Just - where are you? I got a safe place here, I can come get you and-"

"No, leave me alone," Race growls. "I don't want your help. I can take care of myself. Leave me the fuck alone. I'm done with you and your bullshit."

There's a sound from the other end of the line that Race firmly tells himself is _not_ a sob. "Okay, I'm sorry, I just - I'm gonna make this right, baby. Just - stay safe for me, please. Keep your head down and stay safe and I'll fix this."

"You better," says Race. "I don't wanna hear from you again." And then Race ends the call in the middle of his mother's frantic protests. Race turns off the phone before she can try to call back, jamming it into his pocket. His chest is throbbing in a way that has nothing to do with his aching ribs, and he drags his wrist over his eyes, scrubbing away the tears that threaten to escape.

He's an adult (almost), and he's been taking care of himself for years. Honestly, not having his ma around will probably just make that all easier. At the end of the summer, he'll nail his audition, and none of this will matter anymore. Just a few more months and he'll be out of this city and living his dreams. He can make it. He can do this. He just needs to breathe. He just needs a minute to clear his head. He just needs - Race sniffs - _ugh,_ he needs a bath.

Determined, Race slips into the bathroom at the end of the hall and showers away the grime of the night before. The hot water eases away some of the lingering aches, and he snickers in amusement when he steals some of the shampoo only to find it's some girly fruity scent. Still, he feels more human when he's done, even if he has to pull on his same clothes from yesterday.

The smell of fresh coffee leads him back to the main floor and into a different room, which turns out to be a kitchen. Sunlight floods the room, glowing through sheer curtains, and there's classical music coming from a small speaker on the end of the breakfast bar. The man named Davey is standing at the stove, humming to himself as he cooks, but he pauses when Race reaches the doorway. "That you, Race?"

"Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt," Race says, shuffling awkwardly.

"No, of course not," Davey says, waving a dismissive hand without looking away from the stovetop. "Come in. You're more than welcome. Phone, volume down."

" _Volume down_ ," echoes the phone sitting on top of the speakers, and the music fades down to faint background noise.

Davey nods toward the other side of the kitchen. "There's coffee, if you drink it," he offers. "How are you feeling today? You're not limping as bad."

"Just stiff and sore," Race admits, pouring himself a cup of coffee. He sips at it and hums gratefully. As Davey continues to work at the stove, Race moves around to sit at the breakfast bar. Now that he's close enough to hear it, he recognizes the music. "Stravinsky?"

Davey pauses and turns his head enough that Race can see the approving smile on his face. "Impressive," he says, nodding. "Don't know many people who can recognize composers. Hell, Jack only knows Wagner as the 'one from that Bugs Bunny cartoon.'"

Race snorts into his coffee cup. "Yeah, well, coupl'a years of ballet does that to ya," he says, keeping his eyes on his drink. It's not that he's ashamed - he's damned good, and he knows it. He's just used to the comments and jokes that come with that admission, and he's not awake enough or in the mood to fight someone about it yet. He's had more than enough conflict for one morning; he'd really rather make it through at least his coffee before he gets in another.

"Ah, that makes sense," Davey says, nodding. "I guess that also explains why your footsteps are so light." Race glances up in surprise, but Davey doesn't elaborate on that. The other man turns, crossing to the breakfast bar and setting down a plate loaded with scrambled eggs. "I assumed you're hungry," Davey says, digging a fork from a nearby drawer and sliding it across the counter. "Hopefully you don't mind eggs. I'm not the best cook, that's more Jack's area."

"No, this is great," Race says, his stomach leaping at the thought of a warm meal and reminding him it's been way too long since he's eaten. (He never got to eat dinner after rehearsal the night before, the drug lord in his apartment putting a kink in that plan.) He drags the plate across to himself eagerly. "Seriously, thank you."

Davey beams before moving back to the stove. "No problem," he says, dishing up his own breakfast from the pan. "Honestly, it's nice to have company for breakfast for once. Jack's not a morning person." Clutching the plate in one hand, he walks over to the counter and trails his fingertips along the edge as he rounds the bar.

It's only as Race watches the way he moves, his steps carefully measured and hand never losing contact with the edge of the counter, that he finally realizes what it is about Davey that seems off. "Wait, you're _blind_ ," he says, awed. Now that the thought is there, it's glaringly obvious. What Race had thought were nervous averted glances are because Davey's eyes never fully settle on anything, gliding listlessly over whatever has his attention.

Davey laughs as his hand finds the back of the empty barstool. "Guilty as charged," he says. "You didn't know? I thought the reading in the dark might've given it away, but I suppose you were fairly preoccupied last night."

"I had no idea," Race admits. "I feel really stupid now." Davey waves a flippant hand, the other busy with arranging his plate in front of him. "It's just - you were cooking, and you move around so easy. I thought blind people had to use those white canes and stuff."

Grinning, Davey extracts something from his back pocket, setting it on the countertop between them; Race leans in closer to see that it's a collapsible fiberglass cane, white save for a bit of bright red at the end. "I use that most of the time. But once I get used to a place, I can usually get around on my own for the most part," Davey explains. He slides his hand along the counter until he finds the phone on the speaker and he taps the screen, abruptly cutting off the music. "Except when Jack leaves his shoes lying around. The man is a menace."

Race chuckles. "Have you always-" He cuts himself off, clearing his throat. "Sorry, neva mind."

"You're fine, really," Davey says, smiling reassuringly. "And I guarantee, no matter what you say, you'll do it with more tact than the boss did when I first showed up. He seemed to take the hiring of a blind tutor personally offensive, considering his sensitivity about the scars and such, and Lord, did he let me know it." He grins wryly around the lip of his coffee mug. "But to answer your question, no, I lost my sight at fourteen."

"I'm sorry," Race says because he feels like that's what you're supposed to say.

Davey shrugs. " _C'est la vie_. It's no picnic, but it's not all bad."

"The hearing thing?" Race asks curiously. "Like, how ya knew it was me by my steps?"

"You'd be surprised how much you can tell about a person if you just pay attention," Davey agrees. Race can't completely muffle his skeptical noise, and the man's grin is suddenly mischievous. "Italian, right? Not an immigrant, but you probably grew up fluent from how you shape your vowels. So second generation, most likely. Very light on your feet; that's the dance, I'd assume. Showered this morning and used my shampoo - and I'm not apologizing for the scent, by the way, my nose is sensitive and I like strawberries. And judging by the way you're breathing so carefully, I'd guess you've probably got a cracked rib or two that you didn't mention last night. How close am I?"

" _Madonna santa_ ," Race breathes in amazement. "That's insane."

Davey beams triumphantly. "Drives the other two nuts, too. After breakfast, we should find something to wrap those ribs, just in case." He pauses to sip his coffee. "So, how long have you been dancing?"

"Basically since forever," Race admits with a chuckle. "Was dancing soon's I could walk. Took my first class at five and just sorta never stopped."

"That's incredible," Davey says. "That kind of dedication. Are you going to do it professionally? When you graduate, I mean. You are still a teen, right? Sorry, that's one of those things I can't just hear."

"Sixteen," Race supplies with a nod. "And yeah. Never really been anything else I wanna do, ya know? I ain't great at a lotta things, but this is just the one thing I always _got_."

Davey smiles. "Sounds like how Jack talks about painting," he remarks with a soft laugh. "The passion of the artists, I've always found it fascinating. I'd say I'd love to see you perform sometime, but well, I'm afraid it'd be rather lost on me." He gestures to his eyes with a vaguely self-deprecating grin. Davey pauses in reaching for his coffee, his head tipping slightly, and his expression turns fond. "Ah, speak of the devil. Look who's finally awake."

"Shaddup," comes the bleary grumble as Jack shuffles around the doorframe. He's still in pajamas and rubbing his eyes sleepily, hair standing up on one side. When his gaze lands on them, he flashes Race a quick smile. "Hey, there ya are. Thought you might've run for it when I saw the bedroom was empty."

"Not everyone sleeps as late as you," Davey says with an amused smile.

Jack makes a disgusted noise. "Ugh, another morning person? Freaks." He helps himself to a cup of coffee, spooning a somewhat obscene amount of sugar into it. The noise he makes after his first sip is even more obscene. "Mm, only good thing 'bout mornings is Davey's coffee," he says with conviction. Davey snorts, but there's a faint pinkness to his ears, and it'd be impossible to miss the adoration in Jack's eyes as he stares across at the other man. Race hides his smirk behind his coffee cup; god, that's some soppy romance right there.

"How you feelin', Race?" Jack asks, finally tearing his eyes away from Davey. "Ya look like you're doin' better, but those bruises are nasty."

Race got his first good look at the damage that morning in the shower, and 'nasty' is putting it kindly. He's covered in a patchwork of brilliantly-colored bruises, and the left side of his face is still a bit swollen. The brass knuckles cut marks on his cheekbone and jaw, and there's a gash on the opposite side of his forehead from hitting the ground. "Looks worse than it feels," Race says, shrugging.

"He's got a broken rib," Davey tattles, ignoring Race's indignant noise. "We've got a wrap somewhere, right?"

"Pro'lly," Jack agrees. "If not, I'll grab one while I'm out. Gotta do a grocery run today."

"Don't worry about it," Race says immediately. "You guys already done more than enough for me, really. I'm gonna get outta your hair later, just waitin' to hear back from friends, see whose place I can crash at for a bit."

"It's really no bother," Davey says, frowning slightly in Race's direction. "Honestly, it's nice to have someone new around. Don't feel like you're an inconvenience or anything."

Jack hums in agreement. "'Sides, ain't you got a drug lord looking for you?" he points out.

"It's fine," Race says, shaking his head. "Seriously, ya don't gotta do nothin' more. Just forget it."

Except what's he supposed to do, realistically? He's still underage, he's not going to make it far on his own. Sure, he can take care of himself - he's been managing the household mostly by himself for years - but he doesn't have much money to his name, and what he does have is back at the apartment. He won't be safe anywhere in New York, not so long as Weasel is looking for him, but his entire life is here. School, his dance company, all of his friends. Is he really going to have to leave all that behind just to get the target off his back?

He's starting to feel overwhelmed again, drowning in this impossible situation his mother's landed him in, and he feels like he can't breathe. "I - I'm gonna get some air," he says, shoving away from the breakfast bar so hard he almost trips. Jack and Davey are both frowning in concern, and Race really can't take that right now.

He follows the stairs up several more floors until he reaches a heavy steel door. When he shoves it open, it lets out onto the flat gravel roof, and Race takes as deep a breath as his aching chest will allow. He crosses to the edge, weaving around exhaust pipes and air con boxes, and digs out the battered pack of cigarettes he always carries.

That first burning rush of smoke in his lungs feels like surfacing from underwater, and he lets it out slowly. The nicotine takes the edge off his anxiety, and he drops down to sit against the low wall that borders the roof. Jesus, he's in so far over his head. This is insane. It isn't fair. What is he going to do now? He leans his head back against the concrete and stares up into the murky gray sky, hoping for some sort of divine intervention.

His cigarette has almost burnt down to the filter when he finally dares to turn his phone back on. It flashes a quick low battery warning as it wakes up, and he makes a note to ask if he can borrow a charger from Jack or Davey soon. Beneath several missed calls and another handful of texts from his ma, there's a new one from his friend Specs, who's in his dance company.

Race cusses furiously. Of course Weasel would know the best places to look for him. Which means Race can't go to any of his usual hiding places, at least not until Weasel gives up on finding him. He can't go home, he can't go back to school or the dance studio, and he definitely can't risk his friends' safety by hiding out with them. He's trapped.

All of the relaxation the cigarette gave him is immediately chased away. A hopeless sob catching in his throat, Race draws his knees up to his chest and buries his face.

Race isn't sure how long he's sitting up on the roof before he finally manages to get himself back under control. He takes several deep breaths, dries his face on his sleeves, and picks up his abandoned phone. Pulling up the text from Specs, he types a quick reply.

Then Race turns off his phone before the battery can die, stowing it in his pocket. He stands and gives himself one more minute to get his head straight. He can do this. Yeah, it sucks, but he can deal. It's just for a little while, just until he finds something better or Weasel gives up on him. Honestly, Race's probably dealt with worse living situations when Ma went through that phase of sketchy hook-ups.

Halfway down the stairs, Race runs into Jack. The man's dressed now and he offers a reassuring smile when he sees Race. "Hey, was just gonna come make sure ya didn't fall off the fire escape or somethin'," Jack says, leaning casually against the railing. "You okay?"

"Hmm, yeah, I'm good," Race says, playing it off with a shrug. "Just needed a smoke." Jack wrinkles up his nose disapprovingly but doesn't respond. "So, um, if I'm gonna hang out here a while, I could really use a change of clothes and stuff. Thing is, all the money I got is back at my place."

"Don't worry 'bout money, kid," says Jack, shaking his head. "You got enough to worry 'bout. I got some clothes can lend ya for now, and can pick up some stuff for you while I'm out."

Race shifts his weight uncertainly. "Thing is," he presses, "there's some stuff at my place I really don't wanna leave there. Stuff I can't just buy, ya know?" Jack's eyes light in comprehension, nodding. "I just-" Race huffs, frustrated, as he tries to find a way to say what he needs to say.

"Want some comp'ny?" Jack offers abruptly. There's a knowing look in the man's gaze despite his casual smile, and Race feels something in his chest unknot because he doesn't have to be the one to say it. He doesn't have to admit that he's too scared to go back to his own fuckin' apartment alone.

"I mean, if you're not busy," Race says, shrugging.

Jack nods. "I was 'bout to head out on a grocery run anyway," he says. "Can give ya a lift. You might attract attention on the subway, your face all busted up." Race grimaces; yeah, that's a good point. Jack smiles and gestures toward the stairs. "C'mon, let's find ya something to wear that don't look like ya got chomped by zombies."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise Spot actually shows up in the next chapter.
> 
> Forgive me if any of the Italian is wrong, especially as far as tenses. I know very little Italian and most of that is curse words. Blame Google translate. (And lemme know in the comments so I can fix it.)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going to be shooting for updates every Sunday. (I know, Artie actually posting *regularly* is sort of an oxymoron, but we're gonna try this!)

Race slumps awkwardly in the passenger seat of Jack's ancient Honda, trying to look relaxed even as his body seems to protest every breath. His hands fidget in his lap, and he'd kill for another smoke, but he forgot them in the pocket of his jeans when he changed clothes. Probably for the best, anyway, he didn't get the impression Jack would be okay with him smoking in his car. Besides, Race tries not to smoke more than one a day. Still, if there was ever a day for it...

"Gonna break your back, you scoot any more down in that seat," Jack comments in amusement, shooting a sideways glance at him. Race huffs, embarrassed, as he settles a little more naturally into the seat. "Relax, kid, they ain't gonna be peekin' in windows of cars drivin' by to find ya."

"Yeah, well, I didn't think he'd chase me all the way to Brooklyn either," Race counters.

Jack winces, and he gives a grudging nod of agreement. "I'm just sayin', the more you act suspicious, the more people's gonna think you are, ya know?" he says. "Just act like you're s'posed to be there, and no one'll think twice."

Fidgeting with the too-large hoodie Jack lent him - because seriously, Race knows he's a bit on the slim side personally, but the guy's shoulders are _ridiculous_ \- Race scoffs. "Blending in has never really been my strong suit," he admits with a wry laugh. "Don't figure it'll be easier when I look like I been through a meat grinder."

"In this neighborhood?" Jack responds, smirking. "Please, I grew up 'round here. You'd stick out more _without_ the bruises." Race is willing to concede that point. They've only been living here a few weeks, but so far it's on par with every other place they've lived the last couple years; in short, a shithole.

Race directs Jack to the right apartment building, and they manage to find a spot to park not too far down the street. Trying to look inconspicuous about it, Race tugs the beanie he's wearing down around his ears and casts a glance up and down the curb. He doesn't recognize any of the cars as Weasel's or his gang, but that's not saying much, considering how little Race associates with them. "You know, maybe we should put this off a day or two," he says nervously.

"We can, if ya want," Jack says, almost infuriatingly understanding. "But ya know a couple days ain't gonna make a difference. If he's watchin' out now, he'll be watchin' out in a few days too." Race swallows and nods; he didn't really mean it anyway, he doesn't want to risk his things getting stolen or tossed when the landlord realizes they aren't there anymore. "I can go scout it out first if ya want."

"No, I'm fine," Race says, and he forces himself to open the car door. He wraps his arms around himself, huddling inside of the jacket, and takes a deep breath. When Jack comes around the car to join him, Race starts walking. He can do this. What're the odds Weasel will have people camped out at his apartment? Just because they were waiting for him here yesterday...

Race struggles not to twitch as he heads for the door, keeping his head down to avoid the glances from anyone lingering around the building. The outer gate is broken as usual, so Race just leads the way up to the door marked seven. It's cracked open slightly, but that's not the part that makes Race's stomach turn over, his footsteps stalling instantly. There's a knife - Race recognizes it as the same one Weasel pulled on him in that alleyway - stuck in the front door, pinning a scrap of paper in place.

"Stay here," Jack hisses, stepping passed Race. His hand is at the small of his back, and Race's heart leaps when he sees the grip of a handgun peeking out from the waistband of his jeans. Jack draws the gun and crosses to the door in slow, smooth steps. He pauses, listening, and then nudges the door further open. Race's pulse is so heavy he feels like he's going to puke as Jack peers around the door and slips inside.

Christ, what if Weasel's in there? What if he's waiting, or one of his goons? Race might've just gotten Jack hurt, this random guy who's been nothing but helpful and friendly since Race met him. God, what if they shoot Jack?

Race makes it two steps forward before the apartment door opens again and Jack emerges, stowing his gun back in the waist of his jeans. "S'okay, place is empty," Jack says. "Looks like they trashed the place but there's no one here now." He gives the knife in the door an appraising look and then tugs it free, grabbing the paper before it can fall. "Think they're just tryna scare ya."

Face grim, Jack hands out the paper. It's an old photograph, and it must've been pilfered from the album in the apartment because it shows Race as a kid, smiling and embracing his mother at one of his very first dance recitals. There's a simple line of text written on the back in a harsh, jagged hand: _You can hide but I WILL find you both._ Beneath that is just a heavily drawn X.

If Weasel's trying to make a point, he's doing a damn good job of it.

" _Pfft_ , gonna have to try harder than that," Race says, but he can't quite summon up the bravado to back up the words. The message is obviously left for him (and his ma), but the fact that Weasel doesn't have people waiting here too somehow just makes him more uneasy. Weasel's clearly saying that he guessed they'd come by and doesn't care, because he's just that confident that he'll find them anyway.

A hand on his shoulder nearly makes Race jump out of his skin, but it's just Jack. "C'mon, let's get your shit and get outta here," the man says, and his grip is firm and reassuring. With a grateful nod, Race follows the older man into the apartment.

The cramped studio room is in absolute chaos, furniture shoved aside and things knocked off onto the floor. The stack of cardboard boxes where the rest of their meager belongings were still stored has been upended, contents spilled across the carpet. Books and the single photo album have been shredded, pages everywhere, and dishes are broken on the floor.

Ignoring the rest of it, Race heads straight for the tiny pantry in the kitchen. He drags a dining chair over to stand on, pushing aside the old cereal boxes and tin cans on the top shelf. The warped vent cover in the back wall is still in place, and Race tugs it free desperately. " _Grazie Dio_ ," he whispers when he sees the little shoebox hidden there.

Jack gives him a curious look when Race clambers out of the closet with the old cardboard box cradled in his arms. Race can't help but raise his chin defiantly at the scrutiny, which just makes Jack smirk. "Air vent? That's clever," Jack says, glancing over Race's head at the hole in the wall. "Had a place like that when I was a kid, this loose panel in the bathroom wall where I kept stuff I didn't want my fosters findin'."

Race feels some of the tension uncoil from his shoulders. "Didn't trust Ma not to trash it," he says, shrugging. "And she was always bringin' fellas 'round, ya know?" With that, he digs out the duffel bag he uses for dance and settles the box into the bottom. Race drags the laundry basket over and starts piling his clothes in around the box. Once that's done, he flips over the futon mattress, relieved to find his ballet shoes still stowed inside the tear in the fabric. Race does one last sweep of the apartment, grabbing some toiletries, his phone charger, and his (regrettably half-empty) backup pack of cigarettes, and then nods.

"That it?" Jack asks when Race zips up the duffel and stands.

"Don't own a ton," he replies, shrugging. "Moved around a lot, was less hassle to pack that way."

Jack's laugh doesn't sound entirely amused but he nods. "Yeah, no kidding, right?" he agrees. Race makes to sling the duffel over his shoulder, but Jack takes it from him. "Not while you got those ribs messed up," he says over Race's protest. "Now c'mon, let's go."

As much as Race wants to argue that he's perfectly capable of carrying his own shit, he also really wants to get the hell outta this place. He can feel anxiety itching under his skin like bugs. So he casts his eyes around the room one more time, checking to make sure he didn't miss anything important, before he follows Jack out of the apartment. He hesitates on the threshold, palming the photograph that had been stuck to the door before he drops it. It settles, picture-side up, on the carpet just as Race closes the door behind him.

Neither of them speaks until they're safely back inside the junky old Honda, Race's duffel bag tucked into the back seat. Jack sticks the keys in the ignition and lets out a heavy breath. "Well, that was fun."

Race snorts and casts an incredulous look at the man in the driver's seat. "You have a gun?"

Jack hums, flipping the ignition. "I ain't just the housekeeper, ya know. S'how I got the job, 'cause I worked some security jobs in the past too. Only, keep it on the D-L, wouldja? Davey gets squirrely about it, he hates guns."

"Yeah, me too," Race says, thinking of the first time he ever saw a gun in real life; one of his ma's sketchy boyfriends, showing off how macho he was by waving a handgun in Race's face daringly.

"Me too, ach'lly," Jack agrees with a laugh. Shifting the car into gear, Jack merges onto the road. "A'right, I dunno about you, but I feel like we deserve treats after that. Wanna help me sneak some non-Davey-approved snacks into the basket?"

* * *

Race and Jack are already sharing a package of Oreos by the time he pulls the whining car into the basement parking garage. As they do, Race's eyes fall on the motorcycle parked there, and he licks his lips hesitantly. "Jack, can I ask ya something and have you be honest with me?"

Jack glances sideways at him, taking in Race's serious expression, and he kills the ignition. "I ain't gonna lie to ya," he says resolutely. "Swear it. But ya gotta understand, there's some things I can't talk about 'cause they ain't _mine_ to talk about. But I'll try to answer if I can, okay?"

It's the best he's gonna get, and Race can tell it, so he nods. "I just - this boss of yours, what's his deal, really?" he asks. "Not the scars and whatever," he amends at Jack's wince, "I mean with _me_. People don't just charge in and save people from gangs. They don't just let strangers move into their house for nothing. And I mean he's gotta be loaded if he's got you guys as live-in help and all. So I just - I dunno, I guess I just don't understand _why_."

Nodding, Jack twists the car keys through his fingers distractedly. "He may not seem like a nice guy most times, but the boss's been good to me and Dave," he says thoughtfully. "He keeps to himself a lot, and he ain't much for chatting even when he is there, but he's never trouble. And he's got all the reason to give us hell, really. It ain't like he _wants_ us around."

"Wait, what?" Race asks, brow furrowed. "Then why hire you at all?"

"He didn't," Jack says. At Race's frown, Jack grimaces. "We call him the boss, but me and Davey, we don't technically work for _him_. We work for his dad." Race blinks, caught off guard. "The boss' only seventeen, kid. His dad ain't around to keep an eye on him, so he sorta hired me and Dave to do it."

Race lets out a breath, trying to process that. "Fuck, seriously? That's kinda messed up. No offense," he adds. "Not you, I mean his dad."

"Yeah, it's fucked up," Jack agrees without hesitation. "It's part why I took the job, honestly, 'cause the poor kid needs _someone_ to care 'bout him, 'specially after whatever happened to him." He shakes his head distractedly. "Anyway, like I was sayin', the boss gots plenty of reason to make our lives as hard as possible, but he don't. I mean, sure, he can be a dick when he wants to, and those first couple months were rough, but he's not bad. The kid's been through some shit I can't even begin to understand, and he's seen some awful stuff. I've met his dad, and I got a pretty good idea he ain't the cleanest of fellas, and that sorta thing leaves a mark on a kid."

"So what does that mean for me?" Race asks uncertainly, frowning.

Jack contemplates one of the keychains in his palm, a little metal figurine of a cowboy on a bucking horse. "Sometimes when a kid's been stuck in a bad place, he just wants to do somethin' good, ya know?" he says thoughtfully. "Do somethin' to make things _less_ bad. And it don't gotta make sense or make some huge change in the world, but it's _somethin'_ , ya know?"

Race doesn't know, really. He thinks he might understand a little of what Jack is trying to say, but it still doesn't make sense. Still, he nods. "As long as it ain't some creepy sex payment thing, I guess I can't really complain."

The startled laugh that bursts out of Jack is loud in the enclosed space. Race finds himself momentarily struck by how much it changes Jack's face when he laughs, making him suddenly younger and brighter. Jack glances sideways at Race, his smile oddly fond, and he ruffles Race's curls through the beanie. "You're a weird one, pal," he says, chuckling. "I think you're gonna fit in fine."

"Why doesn't that sound like a compliment?" Race responds with a raised eyebrow, making Jack laugh again.

"Shaddup and help me take these groceries in, wouldja?" Jack says, finally reaching for the car door. He grabs Race's duffel bag and slings it over his back, and then pops the trunk open.

"So wait," Race says as they're loading bags out of the trunk, "if you work for his dad, you must know _his_ name at least, right?"

"Sure," says Jack.

"And ya couldn't figure out your boss' name from there?" Race presses.

"Pro'lly," Jack says, slamming the trunk shut with his elbow. At Race's indignant look, he chuckles. "His name's his business. If he wants us to know, he'll tell us."

Race scoffs. "That's stupid, it's a _name_."

Jack doesn't answer for a second, preoccupied with unlocking the door from the garage. "Maybe, but I can tell ya from 'sperience, when you get a lotta your choices taken from ya, li'l things like that matter." Race glances at Jack thoughtfully; what's that supposed to mean? Not only for 'the boss,' but for Jack, too.

The more time Race spends around these people, the less he feels like he actually knows.

* * *

That evening, Race is sprawled in an armchair in the living room, watching a movie with Jack and Davey. For all that the latter complained disapprovingly about the amount of junk food that accompanied the weekly groceries, he's pretty content with his pint of ice cream now. Race is feeling lazy and lethargic, glad for the familiarity of his own clothes and full of popcorn, and he's just starting to nod off when his phone vibrates where it's plugged in by the chair.

"Again?" Jack interjects with a raised eyebrow. "That's like the third time just since the movie started."

"Fourth," Davey corrects.

Race groans and reaches down to reject the call without looking, already knowing who it is. "Take a fuckin' hint," he grumbles to himself and grabs another handful of popcorn.

"Clingy girlfriend?" asks Jack, smirking. "Or, er, boyfriend? Whichever, no judgin'."

"That'd be less annoyin'," Race says. "Nah, just my ma."

From the corner of his eye, Race sees Jack and Davey both making faces. "Have you talked to her?" Davey asks in a tone of polite interest. "Since it all happened, I mean."

"This mornin'," says Race. "Told her to lemme alone, but 'pparently she didn't get the hint." As he says it, the phone lights up with another call.

"That many calls, sounds like it might be important," Jack says. He recoils slightly at the withering look Race sends him, but he presses on, "Look, I know it ain't my place to say what you should do. But I do know what it sounds like when your folks don't give a shit, and that," he points to the still ringing phone, "that ain't it."

"You're right," Race snarls, standing up. "It _ain't_ your place." He drops the popcorn bowl on the coffee table with a heavy thunk and grabs his phone and charger. "I ain't feelin' good, I'mma lay down." Race storms off, his heartbeat throbbing in his ears. Who do they think they are, trying to tell him how to handle his ma? What do they know?

He slams the door to his new bedroom behind him, sitting heavily on the corner of the bed. His breath feels short, the wrap around his cracked ribs restricting his breathing, and he forces himself to focus on steadying it. Race just wants to collapse and sleep for days, except that's precisely when his phone rings again and his resolve snaps.

" _Smettila_!" he barks into the phone, his voice breaking in frustration. "I told you to stop calling me."

"Tony, please," his mother says - and the part of him that still has fond memories of her from growing up flinches at the obvious tears in her voice. "I can't - I can't think straight, wondering if you're in trouble all the time. Please, just let me-"

"No, I'm fine where I'm at," Race says firmly.

"Which is _where_?" Ma asks frantically. "'Cause Tony, you know you can't be at your friends' houses, or with someone from school, 'cause he's gonna know. He'll _find you_."

Race scoffs. "You think I dunno know that?" he replies shortly. "I can't do nothin' thanks to you. I'm missin' the last weeks of school. I'm missin' all my dance classes. Fuck, I'm scared to go to the damn grocery store in case he finds me." He blinks hard when he can feel the tears starting to burn at the corners of his eyes, taking a deep breath through his nose. "Look, don't worry 'bout me, I'm a place Weasel won't never think to look for me. I'm fine. I don't wanna hear from you 'gain until ya got this shit fixed so I can go back to my life."

" _Aspettare_!" Ma cuts in and her tone is desperate. It's the Italian that makes him actually pause though; apart from the pet names from her voicemails earlier, she hasn't spoken to him in Italian in years, not since Pa. "Okay, okay, you don't want me to call, _bene_. I'll stop. Just - could you at least check in with me, lemme know you're still okay? Just a quick call or text or something every few days, just somethin' so I know you're alright, and I'll stop calling. _Per favore, tesoro_."

"Fine," Race growls. "Fine, I'll fuckin' text. But if you start callin' me tons again, I'm blockin' your number."

He isn't prepared for the breathless, relieved, " _Grazie_ , Antonio." It's too raw, too emotional, and it sticks in his ribs like a knife. " _Grazie mille_. I'm gonna fix this, okay? And I know you don't believe me, but I'm sorry, _cuore mio_. I didn't mean for you to get hurt."

"You ain't cared about me gettin' hurt for three years," Race snaps and this time he can't stop the tears. "If ya did, you never would'a stuck those fuckin' needles in yourself. Call me when you get our lives un-fucked." He hangs up and tosses the phone onto the bedside table, fighting back the sobs because they sear like fire through his ribs.

Fuck the 'only one smoke a day' rule. Retrieving his pack and lighter, Race half-jogs up the stairs to the roof. He shoves the door open harder than is probably necessary and stomps across to the ledge, his cigarette already in his mouth and lit before he reaches the low wall. He'll regret this later, but right now, he needs this. He needs to just breathe and forget.

Race is nearly finished with his smoke when the roof door opens. He sighs, ready to tell Jack to go mind his own business, when instead- "Couldja keep the tantrums down?"

The voice is still shockingly deep and ragged, even without the muffle of the motorcycle helmet between them, and Race spins around. The figure standing in front of the door is just a bit shorter than Race, wearing an overlarge black hoodie that's pulled up to shield his downturned face from view. Race huffs, tapping the ash off his cigarette. "I wasn't throwing a tantrum," he grumbles irritably.

"Could'a fooled me," the boss replies, an unmoving statue of sarcastic shadows.

"Oh fuck off," Race says but it comes out more exhausted than anything. "I've had a long fuckin' day and I just wanted one second of peace 'fore I pass out. So, I dunno, couldja just _not_ right now?"

And that manages to provoke a small movement, the other boy crossing his arms over his chest. "I get ya ain't happy 'bout all this. Don't blame ya, who'd wanna be stuck here? Just, couldja maybe not slam the fuckin' door up here? 'Cause my room's right under. S'all I's askin'."

Race scoffs and tosses his cigarette butt over the ledge. "A'right, fine, m'sorry," he says, throwing up his hands. "Ya happy?" He drags a hand down his face, letting out a heavy breath. "Fuck, forget it. It ain't you I'm mad at. Just - neva mind, 'kay?"

From beneath the hood, there's a huff of wry amusement. "Don't worry, heard worse." He turns for the door but pauses in the frame. "Get some sleep, you look like shit."

"Says the talking hoodie," Race shoots back before he thinks better of it. It's met by another huffing sound. "Hey, wait, what do I call you? 'Cause I don't care what Jack and Davey say, I ain't callin' you 'the boss.' That's stupid. So what's ya name?"

A beat, and then, "Don't got one," and the door swings shut behind the hoodie-clad figure.

Sighing heavily, Race leans his elbows on the ledge and squints up at the charcoal gray smudges of sky visible over the light pollution of the city. "The hell I got myself into?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course, as soon as I say that I'll post regularly, I catch the flu going around my office and completely miss my deadline. Sorry for the delay, folks.

Despite his resentment at being there, Race finds that he settles in at the so-called 'Refuge' easily enough over the next few days.

It's a strange, glorious luxury to have his own bedroom; privacy is something he hasn't for a while. It's a novel experience to have a room that's just for him, that no one else enters without his say-so. Even though he keeps telling himself he won't be there long, that this is only a temporary stay, he can't entirely stop himself from spreading his things out and making the space his own.

Jack and Davey, when they're not preoccupied with none-too-secretly mooning after each other, turn out to be easy to get along with, and Race likes them. Jack is wild and chaotic, a creature of boundless energy who seems to flourish at having someone new to talk to. Davey is calmer, but there's a dry, sarcastic lilt to his humor that Race can relate to, and they discover they have plenty of similar interests. It's an odd balance but it works, and Race relaxes around them once they establish a ground rule that they are not his parents and his personal life is _his_ business.

Race doesn't actually see the mysterious "boss" again during that time, although he sees evidence that he's been around.

So Race lazes around the apartment while he heals, keeping the two men company as they go about their usual affairs. He listens to Davey talk about distant historical events with rapt fascination, the pair of them sprawled on the sofa with classical music in the background. Jack lets him into the room across from his bedroom, which it turns out he's converted into an art studio, the room cramped with paint supplies and a row of finished canvases. Race is allowed to hover so long as he doesn't touch the paintings, so he perches on a drafting stool and listens to Jack tell animated stories about his reckless youth.

And after the first dinner the three of them share, Race firmly takes over control of the kitchen. If he's going to be stuck here, he's not going to suffer through Jack's abysmal understanding of how seasonings work. "Don't argue 'bout food with an _Italiano_ ," he says, brandishing a spatula menacingly when Jack tries to reason that cooking is his job and Race is a guest. "'Sides, I been jonesing to cook some real food. Ain't been in a kitchen this flush in years."

Jack relents after much grumbling, but it only takes one meal for even that to stop. His _papà_ raised him right, and Race knows his damn way around a kitchen. After a few years of microwave dinners and canned soup, the apartment's little kitchen is a godsend. Jack swiftly promises that whatever Race needs for cooking, he'll add to the shopping list without question. Race beams smugly at them both over his bowl of bolognese. It feels good to know he can do _something_ to earn his keep.

It only takes two more days before the itch to be dancing is physically painful. Race has been taking it easy, although he still pushes himself through his daily stretches to keep his muscles loose, and he's healed up enough that he can move around without much pain. So Race hunts out a place in the apartment he can use for practice.

It doesn't take long to discard the roof and dining room, both too cluttered. None of the halls are large enough, and besides, he feels like he'd probably be an inconvenience if Race took over a hallway. There are two more rooms on the floor above Race's bedroom - one has been converted into a gym, apparently, judging by the treadmill and free weight set; the other is an empty guest bedroom that is nothing more than storage for the stray things that don't belong anywhere else. Not great, but it'll have to do.

On the night that marks his first full week at the Refuge, Race leans against the wall in the room after only a half-hour of dancing, irritably cursing the plush carpet that's throwing off his turns. This isn't working. He groans and crosses the hall; if he can't dance, he needs to at least be moving, so the treadmill will have to do. Tugging on his shoes, Race cranks up the speed and runs.

Letting himself settle into the mindless rhythm of pumping legs, Race considers his options. He doesn't want to be a nuisance - he's still waiting for these guys to get annoyed with him and kick him to the curb to fend for himself - but if he can't leave this place, he needs somewhere to dance. He can't just _not_ dance. Besides, he's got an audition at the end of the summer, he needs to get himself into peak form.

Maybe they'll let him pull up the carpet in that guest room. A place this nice, they've got to have wood floors beneath the carpet, right? Or maybe he can see if Jack'll help him move the furniture out of the dining room since no one ever eats there anyway.

Over the sound of his pounding feet, an engine roars loudly from somewhere below, and Race startles. It's not the first time he's heard it since coming here, but last time, Race was already in bed when the boss took off. Maybe if he hurries, Race can catch him to ask about the carpet. (He ignores the part of him that's just plain curious about the boy who saved his life but won't show his face.) Jumping off the treadmill, Race runs down the stairwell in time to watch the motorcycle disappearing onto the street.

Race huffs and turns, heading back into the house, but he only makes it a few steps when something catches his attention. The door to the first floor is open. It's always been closed every time Race has seen it. His curiosity gets the better of him and Race slips through the door. Down the tiny back hall - which has an office and a supply closet - to the main room, he brushes his hand along the wall until he finds a light switch and flicks it.

It was definitely some sort of shop once upon a time, but the place has been gutted down to nothing. There are boards tacked up over the windows, and more than half the bulbs staggered around the ceiling are burnt out. Apart from a low counter that must've served for the cash register at some point, the rest of the space between Race and the heavily-bolted front door is nothing but an open expanse of scratched and scuffed hardwood flooring.

Race's heart leaps; it's _perfect_.

The entire next day is spent cleaning away the layer of dust and disuse. He relocates the few empty boxes and cartons still in the shop to the closets and cramped little office room, sweeps and mops the floors to a shine. Jack offers to help more than once, but Race shoos him off; this is his thing, he wants to do it himself. Still, he gushes excitedly about the progress as he makes dinner that night.

"S'gonna work out great," Race says, stirring the saucepan appraisingly. "Plenty of room now I got it all cleared out. Jack, hand me the rosemary? No, _idiota_ , that's coriander - yeah, _that_ one. Thanks." He tastes the sauce thoughtfully and nods. "You sure your _boss_ ," he intentionally adds sarcasm to the title, "don't mind me taking over the shop?"

Davey chuckles from where he's sitting at the breakfast bar, listening to them bicker. "I talked to him earlier," he admits. "He's fine. He said, and I quote, 'so long as it keeps him from stomping around under my room all day, I could care less.' I think that's as close as you'll get to a blessing."

"I don't _stomp_ ," Race grumbles. "Just kept fallin' 'cause the carpet."

"Kid, learn to read 'tween the lines," Jack says, laughing. He yelps and recoils when Race smacks his wandering hand away from the pan with the mixing spoon. Still, Jack smirks as he licks the sauce off his hand and hums approvingly. "You gotcha permission. Just roll with it."

"A'right, fine, now get outta my way," Race says, waving a hand dismissively. "Get the bowls out, this's 'bout done."

They eat dinner in the living room, an old action movie Jack picked playing beneath their easy chatter. When Race slips out before the end of the movie to finish cleaning the shop, Jack and Davey are so invested in a debate about films that they don't notice him leaving. Race shakes his head, smirking to himself as he gives the shop floor one last polish; if the unresolved sexual tension between those two gets any worse, it might actually kill them all.

By the time he's finished, the empty shop has been converted into a passable dance studio. Race's still-battered body is sore from all the housework, but he stays up late into the night running through familiar exercises and routine work, and for the first time in a week, he feels like himself again. 

* * *

 

It becomes habit after that.

Race wakes at sunrise - he's always been an early riser - to have breakfast and coffee with Davey. After that, he goes down to the first floor to get in a couple of hours of practice, pushing himself back into the work that comes easy as breathing after so many years. He spends the afternoons with Jack or Davey, or both; helping with housework, watching movies, or just talking. Then, after dinner, he returns to the studio and dances until he falls into bed from exhaustion.

Before he knows it, two weeks have passed.

The music pulses from the little set of Bluetooth speakers Davey's lent him, and Race lets the rest of the world fade away behind the familiar symphony. Most of his injuries have healed at this point, not that it's ever stopped him before; part of being a dancer is learning to work through the pain. At the moment, he's polishing his barrel jumps, trying to get up to a 540 despite the protests of his still-tender ribs.

Race takes a deep breath, executes two flawless barrel jumps, and then exhales as he throws himself into the 540. A quarter shy of the complete turn he can tell he's not going to make it, the sharp pain in his ribs making his muscles spasm and preventing the full twist, and he rolls to soften the impact when he doesn't get his leg back beneath him in time. Cursing breathlessly, he slaps the floor and sits up.

His eyes catch the vague outline of a silhouette in the hallway from the back entrance, and Race swears again as his heart jumps into his throat. The person turns away before Race can get a proper look, but there's only one person it can be. "Hey, wait!" Race shouts after him, shoving himself up off the floor and bolting out into the stairwell after him. "Wait a sec!"

The boss stops several steps up, back to him, but Race doesn't miss the quiet, defeated sigh. He's wearing the same over-large black sweatshirt, the hood pulled up to hide his face, and his hands are tucked into the pockets. Race considers him for second and then says, "Were you watching me?"

"I just-" The boss trails off and Race is once again startled by the unnaturally deep rumble of his voice. He grinds the ball of his foot against the step in agitation and then says, tone softer, "Youse good."

Race can't stop the flush of satisfaction, and he grins. "Not today I'm not, but thanks," he says, rubbing the heel of his hand against his aching ribs. "Ya know, you coulda just come in. You don't gotta hover in the door like a creeper."

"Didn't wanna scare you."

Race snorts loudly. "Yeah, how'd _that_ work out for ya?" The other guy makes a noise that might have been a laugh, shrugging.

"Look, I been meanin' to say thanks," Race hurries on before the other guy can decide to run off again. He traces his fingers over the red line around his forearm, the beginnings of what will definitely be a scar from Weasel's knife boy. "For a fella who don't get out much, you're surprisingly hard to catch. But you literally saved my life, and now you've been lettin' me crash here, even when I slam doors and stomp a bit." He smiles ruefully at the jab and catches another of those soft huffs of amusement. "And now I've sorta taken over a whole floor of your house too."

This time the other guy does laugh, a single, dry chuckle. "Ain't like it was bein' used," he points out. His Brooklyn drawl is strong, but Race finds it kind of suits the low, coarse timbre of his voice. "And the fellas seem ta' like having you, so stay s'long as you like." Seeming to consider the conversation over, he takes a step and Race scrambles to follow.

"Wouldja _stop_?" Race asks, exasperated. "I'm tryna talk to you here." He doesn't expect it to work, but the other man does stop, foot paused on the step. "Like I was sayin'," Race says deliberately and thinks he hears the guy snort, "thing is, I think I'm gonna be stuck here a bit longer unless you decide to give me the boot, and it's stupid for you to keep skulkin' around your own house avoidin' me. I get that you got some weird thing goin' on," the guy tenses visibly, "but I seriously don't care. Doncha think it's 'bout time we meet for real?"

"You talk a lot." Despite the obvious rebuke in his tone, the guy sounds vaguely entertained anyway. He exhales heavily, and his foot slides back down from the step. "You sure?"

Race shrugs. "Might s'well. I mean, the guys say you don't come out much anyway, but I been here two weeks and only seen you once, and that can't be healthy. Besides, I don't mind having someone watch me practice, but it's creepy you just lurkin' in the hall. So you're welcome to come in if ya want." He hesitates for a minute, waiting to see if the guy will take the bait, and then steps back off the stairs. "Anyway, I'mma get back to practice."

"Wait."

Race stops mid-turn, surprised because this time it's the guy calling out to him. The guy turns slowly, his head bowed so that his face is still shaded by the hood, and pulls his hands from the hoodie pocket. Race's gaze follows them curiously; the skin on the knuckles is cracked, short nails chipped and discolored. There are strange, raised white scars on the backs of the hands intermingled with tiny black tattoos of unfamiliar patterns, like symbols from some long forgotten language. The hands lift slowly to grip the edges of the hood and push it back.

Race struggles to figure out what to focus on first as he takes in the other's face. The same raised white lines and black tattoos from his hands are also scattered all across his bald head and neck, forming cryptic runes and designs on his skin. There's a sprawl of pale violet interwoven lines, like his veins have been burnt into his flesh, which starts at the hollow of his throat and branches out as they spread all the way up the left side of his face like lightning.

Two warped and misshapen lines of silver cross the arch of an eye socket where he should've had an eyebrow, embedded into the skin like a brow piercing got blowtorched onto his face. There are patches of burns where skin ripples like melted wax; across the bridge of his nose, curving around the back of his neck, almost all of his right ear. His dark eyes are filled with broken blood vessels, the whites nearly completely died scarlet and black from the damage.

And amid all that, Race finds his attention snagging on one tiny detail: a row of four little black dots that curve along the lower edge of the guy's right eye socket.

"You got a spot, there," Race says, gesturing to his own eye. "Ya know that?"

For a long, tense minute, the other stares back at him, and then the corner of his lips twitches upward ever so slightly. "You're kiddin'."

"Nah, really, you got spots," Race insists, fighting back a smile. "My ma called 'em beauty marks, I think." The guy skeptically raises an eyebrow - or what would be if he had them, but instead of hair, there's a tattooed line of strange white glyphs along the arch - but doesn't respond. "Anyway, never introduced myself. Name's Racetrack Higgins."

"Racetrack," the other echoes disbelievingly.

Race shrugs, unconcerned. "Or Race. It's what ev'ryone calls me," he admits. "One of those old nicknames that just stuck, ya know?" He pauses, waiting expectantly, but the other doesn't supply his own name in response. Yeah, Race didn't figure it'd be that easy, but he's willing to take the little victory he's gotten. Sometimes it helps to fold your hand so you can win the next go; he feels like this is one of those times."So, now that's done, I'm gonna get back to practicing. You're welcome to come watch if you want, Spotty."

There's a surprised bark of laughter from the stair as Race turns and slips back into the makeshift studio. By the time he's finished resetting his music and stretching out his muscles again, the other guy has followed him in and, hood pulled back up, he settles down against the wall to watch.

And if Race shows off a little bit as he goes through his exercises, well, maybe an audience is just the push he needs.


	5. Chapter 5

"I dunno what you said to him, but it's crazy," Jack says as Race watches him paint, a week after Race has officially met the boss of the house. "This is the most I've seen him in months. I've been here since the beginning, and even when it was just the two of us, he didn't come out this much."

Race twirls a ratty paintbrush through his fingers distractedly, watching Jack lean in to add a few strokes to a brightly colored landscape. "The boss" - who still hasn't provided a name but seems content to continue answering to Spot - has been making sporadic appearances over the last week. It seems now that the barrier's been broken, he doesn't feel the need to keep to himself. While he doesn't join them for meals or anything, he wanders through the house at random, like he's no longer restricted to his bedroom only, and he'll grunt an acknowledgment if anyone addresses him.

And, of course, he hasn't missed a night of Race's dance practices, slinking in and out without more than a handful of words. He doesn't come for the morning ones, which isn't missing much because Race uses those for polishing his basics anyway, but he's always there in the evening. Race tries to talk to him sometimes, but it seems that Spot's native tongue is "monosyllable" because that's pretty much all he ever gets out of him. For the most part, Race ends up holding one-sided conversations with himself while Spot listens.

"You've been here since the beginning?" Race asks curiously.

Jack hums. "Least since he moved in here," he agrees. "Eight months now, 'bout." Race watches the older man's profile suspiciously. He's always figured that Jack knows a lot more about Spot than he lets on, and moments like this only solidify that. Jack casts a quick glance at him, and something about his smile says he knows exactly what Race is thinking, but he doesn't say anything more.

Scoffing, Race shakes his head. "Fine, be cryptic then."

"I ain't being cryptic," Jack counters, laughing. "A'right then, ya wanna know? Those first few months were rough. Kid was pissed, and I had no idea what I'd got into. On'y got worse when Davey showed up - we'd been here a'most two months then - and that's when he started gettin' mean. But then one day, all'a sudden, he just lost all the fight in him. Stopped stormin' and started keepin' to himself. I dunno what caused it, but he just sorta - gave up, a bit, I guess." The older man pauses and sighs. "But I figure he must still get lonely sometimes 'cause he'll come down and hover. Sit and listen to me talk while I'm paintin' or when Davey reads aloud. He don't talk much, but he listens. There ain't a lot more to it than that."

"Whatever happened to him," Race says, choosing his words carefully, "that ain't scars from an accident or nothin'."

"Nah, don't think so," Jack agrees. "That's what his old man said it was, told me it was a bad car wreck, but you only gotta take one look to know that ain't true. Dunno what it was, though." He seems to consider his hands for a moment, picking at his thumbnail, and then adds, "But there was one night he was sittin' in here with me, and he was a li'l more chatty than usual. I dunno if he was being sarcastic, but he said it was punishment for something. That he'd been cursed."

Race arches an eyebrow. "Cursed," he repeats dubiously. "Like, magic?" Jack shrugs and doesn't elaborate, letting Race take from it what he will. "Magic ain't real," Race says because he feels like it needs to be said.

Jack doesn't look away from his painting, biting distractedly at the end of his paintbrush as he considers the canvas thoughtfully. (At least now Race knows why all the paintbrushes have teeth marks in them.) Finally, he shrugs. "Lots'a people don't believe in global warming neither, but that doesn't make it less true."

Race scoffs. "Yeah, but science and magic aren't the same thing."

"Ain't they?" Jack asks, glancing sideways and raising an eyebrow. He chuckles and shrugs again. "I'm not sayin' I really believe it either, just sayin' that's his story. Honestly, I think I'd prefer it _was_ magic. Don't wanna think 'bout how he got that way otherwise."

Looking down at his lap, Race cringes. Jack might have a point there. There's an intense precision to the runes carved and tattooed into Spot's skin. If they didn't appear by magic, that means someone went through the effort to _cause_ every single one of those marks. Race's stomach burns with nausea at the very thought.

If Spot has to tell himself they were caused by magic to cope, Race can't really blame him there.

"What about doctors?" Race asks. Jack shoots him a questioning look. "I mean, he gets messed up that bad, they would've had to take him to a hospital or something, right? And his dad's loaded, so couldn't they afford, I dunno, surgeries to fix it? Like, skin grafts and stuff."

"They tried." Race jumps at the voice from the doorway. Davey leans against the frame, his arms folded over his chest and his unfocused eyes lingering somewhere near Race's elbow. "Sorry, didn't mean to intrude," adds Davey. "I just heard you talking from the hall."

Jack waves a dismissive hand, which makes Race smirk because it's not like Davey'll see the gesture. For someone who's lived with Davey for months, it's like Jack sometimes completely forgets he's blind. "You said the doctors tried?" Race presses curiously.

Davey nods. "He said they went to a dozen different doctors when it first happened," he explains. "Apparently what little repair work they tried to do didn't take, although he didn't elaborate on exactly what that entailed."

"When'd he tell you that?" asks Jack, looking up with a furrowed brow. "Never heard him talk about that before."

"He was asking about my eyes," Davey admits. "Told me that he'd met all of the best doctors in New York, and asked if there's any surgery that can be done to fix my eyes. I think he was implying he'd help connect me with the doctors if there were, like he really wanted to help fix me." There's something soft but sad about his smile. "It was kind of sweet, actually."

"Now that's a word I never thought I'd hear attached to the boss," Jack says with a small smirk.

Chuckling, Davey shrugs. "Everyone has their moments. Even you."

"What? I'm sweet as hell," Jack protests petulantly.

Race snorts. "Sweet as vinegar, maybe," he jokes, and then yelps and nearly falls off the stool when Jack jabs at him with the paintbrush. "Exhibit A!" Race says as he scrambles out of reach. "You're provin' my point!"

"Fuckin' smart mouth teenagers," Jack grumbles.

"C'mon, Race," says Davey, laughing as he nods toward the hall. "Let's leave Rembrandt to sulk in his artistic funk."

"Rude," Jack says, scowling. "That's just offensive. Rembrandt's work is borin'. I'm more a Van Gogh, or at _least_ a Monet."

"Like I'd know," Davey points out with a grin. Jack actually blushes a little at that, chuckling uncertainly as he rubs the back of his neck (getting paint on his ear in the process). Pushing up off the door frame, Davey jerks his head toward the hall. "I'll help you with dinner, if you want."

Race glances at his watch and hums an agreement; it's close to the time he usually starts cooking anyway, and the parmesan breading will take a little extra time. When Race steps out into the hall, he nudges Davey's arm with his elbow, letting the older man grasp his bicep as a lead. "Don't mind him, he gets grumpy when he's stuck on a painting," Davey says conspiratorially as they start toward the stairs.

"Heard that!" Jack shouts after them.

Grinning, Race rolls his eyes. "You guys know each other from before here?"

"Hmm? Oh, no, never met him before I started working here," Davey says. "Why?"

"You guys just - stairs," he warns as they reach the staircase, and Davey squeezes his arm in silent acknowledgment. "You guys act like the sort of people who've known each other a long time. Remind me of my friends Specs and Romeo; they've known each other since kindergarten, and they got the same thing goin' on, the whole bickerin' like an old married couple."

Davey chuckles airily. "Yes, well, six months of being around the same person every day, that will happen," he responds. "Apart from the boss, who's not exactly a riveting conversationalist, I haven't really been around anyone else but Jack for months."

"Don't you guys get time off?" asks Race. Now that he thinks about it, apart from the weekly grocery runs and occasional errands, he hasn't actually seen Jack or Davey leave the house that much.

"Sure, I suppose," Davey says, nodding. "I didn't go this month, but I've gone out to visit my parents for a weekend here or there. But honestly, and this may surprise you, but I didn't exactly have the most active social life before this place either." Race laughs at the dry sarcasm, and he pauses to transfer Davey's hand from his arm to the back of a bar stool at the counter. "Oddly, blind teachers don't tend to rank too high on the party VIP list."

"Their loss," Race says, grinning, as he moves around the counter to start cooking. "You're a fuckin' wizard at charades."

Davey laughs, a full, proper belly laugh where he throws his head back, and Race realizes it's the first time he's seen Davey laugh like that. The more reserved man smiles often, and he's prone to quiet chuckles, but he doesn't _really_ laugh. It sends a small thrill through Race to know he caused it. Davey shakes his head, grinning fondly when he catches his breath. "Alright, funny guy, what can I do to help?"

"Uh, need these veggies diced," Race says, retrieving the bag from the crisper. "You up for it?"

"Bring it on," says Davey, smirking. Race sets up a cutting board on the breakfast bar and lays out the freshly washed vegetables, and then carefully presses the handle of the cutting knife into Davey's extended palm. "How small?" Davey asks, running his fingers over the vegetables in exploration.

"Half-inch-ish," Race says, and Davey nods. It always makes him anxious watching Davey in the kitchen, but he learned quickly that the older man hates to be babied. By this point, Race knows that he's more than capable of doing most things, but he can't help but watch nervously out of the corner of his eye as Davey lines up the carrot and starts slicing it in smooth, precise strokes.

"Stop staring," Davey says abruptly, eyebrow raised in an unimpressed look. "I can feel you staring."

"Oh relax, I'm just making sure your fancy pants college degree taught ya how to chop proper," Race retorts to play it off. Still, he pointedly turns away and gets back into the fridge, pulling out the rest of dinner. "What about Jack?"

Davey chuckles. "You were literally just complaining about his chopping skills two days ago."

Race glances over his shoulder, mouth already open to correct him, before he sees the shit-eating grin on Davey's face. Huffing, Race picks up one of the carrot cubes and flicks it at Davey's head. "Smart ass."

"Hello, Pot, my name's Kettle," Davey responds dryly.

"I'm flipping you off, just so you know," Race narrates aloud, making Davey laugh again. "Seriously though, what's Jack's deal? He's been here longer than you, right? And he ain't gone crazy yet?"

Davey chuckles, sliding the pile of carrot slices to the edge of the board and pulling another toward him. "Well, his sanity is still up for debate," he jokes. "As far as his life outside of here, well, I don't know much about it. He doesn't ever really take a weekend off or anything. The closest he comes to time off is when he goes in to paint and locks the door. Pro tip: don't bother him if the door is closed."

Scowling at the chicken he's coating, Race thinks about the finished canvases he's seen in Jack's studio. Most of them are vibrant, sprawling landscapes, but there's a small collection of ones that are different; harsh, jagged lines, dark colors and heavy strokes that form abstract shapes full of wordless emotion. They're so radically unlike his usual, and when Race asked him about it, Jack's only response was, "just an experiment." It's weird, but Race can kind of understand. After all, how many times has he worked through stress or anger by pushing himself harder in the dance studio?

"He said he was in foster care," Race probes after a minute. "He don't got a family to go visit on the weekends like you?"

The knife stills on the cutting board for a second, Davey hesitating, before he picks up the rhythm again. "No, he doesn't," he says quietly.

Aiming to lighten the mood, Race adds, "And what's the deal with you two?"

"What do you mean?" Davey asks, head tipping slightly to the side the way it does when he's genuinely confused.

"Like, have you guys fucked yet?"

Davey sputters, and his hand slips on the knife, sending a cascade of carrot pieces across the countertop. "Since when is that an acceptable question to ask someone?" he chides. Race isn't fooled, though; Davey's ears have gone red.

"Yeah, well, since when do a teenager with serious self-esteem issues and his hired help take in a victim of drug crime like he's a stray puppy?" Race counters with a shrug. "I kinda assumed normal world rules don't apply here. 'Sides, ain't we friends?"

Despite his attempt at a bland expression, there's a hint of a smile teasing at the corner of Davey's mouth. "Disregarding the fact that I'm a decade older than you-"

"Age is just a number, _amore_."

"Friends or not," Davey continues, speaking over him, but there's definitely a grin there now, "my love life, or lack thereof, is my business."

Race huffs. "So that's a no then," he concludes. "What gives?"

Davey exhales heavily. "Friendly and casual as we might be here, Tony," Race immediately knows he's pushed it too far by the use of his given name, Davey's voice taking on that tone his mother's always used to when he'd misbehaved as a child, "I am a professional and I am _working_."

Yeah, that's a flimsy excuse if he's ever heard one. "Oh, gotcha, yeah," says Race. "Makes sense, don't wanna mess up your job and all. How's those veggies comin'?" He sees Davey's posture relax slightly at his acceptance, and the older man's attention turns back to the vegetables. "Just, ya know, you can't be workin' all your life, right?" he adds because he can't help himself. He's never been great at knowing when to stop, always nudging the line just that little bit further. "I mean, you guys ain't plannin' on workin' here forever, right?"

"You are incorrigible," Davey says, shaking his head. "Remember when we established the rule that Jack and I wouldn't ask questions about your personal life?"

Race winces. "Gonna tell me it's a two-way street sorta thing?" he guesses, and Davey nods. "A'right, a'right, I give up. I'll leave it alone." _For now_ , he finishes mentally. No way is he dealing with the awkward tension between those two on the long term without doing something about it. 

"Thank you," Davey says, and he gives a shallow smile. As he slides the carrot slices aside and starts in on a zucchini, he says, "You know, speaking of my job, you must've missed some school in coming here."

"Ugh, don't remind me," Race says, moaning dramatically. "Missed all my year-end exams and stuff. And I was actually doing pretty good in my classes this year too. Now I'll pro'lly have to retake at least part'a the year."

Davey hums. "You could," he agrees. "Or, if you're interested, I happen to know someone who possesses both a New York state teaching license and a considerable amount of free time."

Race looks up from the pan of chicken he's breading in surprise. "You sayin' you wanna, what, homeschool me?"

"I'm just putting the option out there," Davey says with a smile. "That is what I'm here for, after all. If my original student isn't going to use my services, I might as well teach someone. At the very least, I can help you make sure you don't have to repeat a year when you go back to school."

"You can do that?" Race asks curiously.

"It won't be a free pass," Davey says firmly. "You'll have to actually put in the work, show me that you do know the stuff you'll need to pass the exams. But yeah, we could do that."

Race considers it. He's sort of enjoyed not being in school - he's never been all that great at academics anyway - but he also really doesn't want to have to redo his sophomore year either. And honestly, he's already learned more about history just from listening to Davey ramble excitedly about ancient wars and civilizations than he ever did in his proper classes. "Okay," he says, grinning. "I mean, you can't be any worse than some of my teachers from school. Could be kinda fun."

Davey chuckles. "Thanks, that's very encouraging," he says sarcastically, but he's beaming. "Okay, give me a day or two to get my lesson plans back in order. We'll start next week." He pauses, head cocked the way it does when he's listening to something Race can't hear, and he smiles softer. "And you know, if anyone else happens to want to join in, class discussions are always more informative with more voices."

Race's brow furrows, confused, before his gaze darts to the kitchen doorway. He makes eye contact with Spot for all of a second before the other boy ducks his head and keeps walking, headed for the stairs down to the garage. "I dunno, might intimidate folks with how smart I am," he responds, deliberately raising his voice so the retreating figure will hear him. Davey snorts. "You knew he was standing there?"

"Not everyone walks as lightly as you," Davey says, nodding. "He's been doing that more lately. Hovering outside doors, I mean. I think you've made him curious."

"Can't say I really blame him," Race jokes with a grin. "I'm kinda awesome, after all."

But there's something more sincere in Davey's face when he pauses in slicing vegetables and smiles. "Yeah, kid, you kind of are."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter without Spot really in it, promise. But I couldn't say no to a little adoptive family fluff. Jack and Davey have SO adopted this little nerd as their baby now.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is coming at the end of the day, got stuck with an overtime shift at work. Hopefully the gift of Spot finally being in the story makes up for it?

The sun is setting somewhere off on the other side of the city, the muggy gray of the city's constant pollution bleeding through with blue and violet as night creeps over them. Race closes the roof access door behind him, wandering out into the middle of the gravel stretch and listening to the sounds of the city around him. As much as he doesn't want to think about it, he can't keep his mind off the text messages on his phone.

Lighting up a cigarette, Race stretches out on his back in the middle of the roof and takes a drag. He watches with fascination as the stream of smoke he lets out floats up and dissipates into the rest of the gray above. There's something almost magical about it, something so small blending so seamlessly into the great mass. Magical and sad. Ugh, he's getting poetic, gross, he really needs to get out more...

"Ya know that's bad for you, right?"

" _Cazzo_!" Race bolts upright, coughing when he accidentally sucks the mouthful of smoke down in his surprise. By the time he gets his breathing back under control, Spot has emerged from the shadows where he was lurking and is lingering a few feet away like he's not sure what to do with himself. "You scared the shit outta me," Race says indignantly, wiping at his streaming eyes with the back of his wrist.

Spot has his usual hoodie pulled up so that most of his face is shielded, but Race still catches the tilt of his lips as he smirks. "Didn't mean ta'," he says and even sounds vaguely apologetic. "Not used ta' having other people 'round."

Shaking his head, Race flicks his cig to shake the ash from the end. "Used to sneakin' around like a creeper, you mean," he counters with a laugh. He takes a quick drag, letting the smoke out through his nostrils, and then gestures at the ground next to him. "You can sit down, ya know."

Spot licks his lips, seeming to consider it for a minute before he moves a few steps closer and sinks down to sit facing Race. That in and of itself surprises the hell out of Race - Spot has pointedly ignored all attempts to have a proper conversation so far. "Seriously, though, that stuff'll kill you," he remarks, nodding toward Race's hand. "That can't be good for the dancin'."

"I know," Race says defensively, fidgeting with the cheap cig. He hates this brand, but beggars can't be choosers, especially when the beggars are still several years underage. "Don't do it much." He takes a final drag, the cigarette burning up to the filter, and then flicks the butt away. Savoring the burn of the smoke for a long second, he exhales it slowly and watches it dissolve in the air. "Don't even like it, really."

"Then why do it?" asks Spot, frowning.

Race smiles wryly. "It's a stress thing mostly," he admits. He turns his gaze down to his hands, twisting his fingers together as if he can feel the lingering ghosts of the smoke on his skin. "And it's dumb but - that smell makes me feel better. My pa always smelled like smokes."

There's a drawn out silence, and then Spot asks, "He died?"

"Three years ago," Race answers, nodding. "Funeral's the first day I smoked; stole the rest his pack and smoked 'em all that night, one right after the other. Made myself so fuckin' sick." He chuckles at the memory. "Just needed to smell that again for a bit, feel like he wasn't all the way gone, ya know?"

"Not really," Spot confesses softly. "But then, I ain't close with my folks." There's more behind that, darkness and intensity that's boiling beneath the surface of his words, but Race has enough sense to know it's not a topic to press right now. Especially not with what Jack told him about Spot's dad when he first got here. "Sorry being here is stressin' ya."

Race exhales heavily. "It's not that," he says. "This place ain't so bad, really. S'just this whole thing, not bein' able to go back to my life. Got a text from a friend today, guess Weasel was poking around the studio again lookin' for me. Been a month, was hoping he'd give up by now." He huffs irritably and cards a hand through his messy curls - they're getting long, he needs a cut. "Was s'posed to have a show this weekend, but I know he's gonna be there so I can't risk it."

"The dancing?" Spot guesses, and Race nods.

"Was my pa who got me into it," Race admits, fiddling distractedly with his chipped lighter. It's been a long time since he's talked about his father, usually keeping those memories safely buried. His mother always hated it when he brought up Papà; she'd scream at him that it was too painful, and then retreat into the blissful oblivion of the drugs. After all that, it's become a habit to keep his father as a quiet talisman that's only for him, safely stowed in his memories and the worn shoebox he hides in the air vents.

Yet right now, with everything that's going on, Race can't hold it back anymore. He _wants_ to remember when his family was good and whole and safe. And there's something oddly comforting in spilling his secrets to this near stranger. "We went to this opera when I was little, the one time my _nonna_ came over from Italy, and I was bored outta my head. Was only five, didn't give a fuck 'bout all the tragedy and romance or whatever, ya know? But then these dancers come out, and suddenly it just clicked. All that drama and singing went over my head, but this? _This_ I got.

"Pa signed me up for my first class that week. Took me to every single class. Was the first person to really believe in me, ya know? Made me think I could really do this. And when I got older, and other kids started makin' fun of me for it, he's the one convinced me to stick it out. Said you can't smother the fire in your soul just 'cause other people don't get it. Always told me I had _il Fuoco d'Italia_ inside me - The Fire of Italy - and it'd be a crime to ignore that."

"He ain't wrong." The simple statement is said with such conviction that it makes something seize up in Race's chest.

"Surprised you like it, honestly," Race remarks, glancing across at the other boy. "Most guys think dancing is for girls. Too tough for it. You seem kinda like that sort."

Spot makes a derisive noise. "Tell it like ya see it, huh?" he says, but he doesn't sound angry or offended. He shrugs, wrapping his arms around his knees, and it's that defeated little position that reminds Race that Spot isn't much older than him. He forgets, sometimes, because of the way Jack and Davey treat him with an almost reverence, but beneath the scars and scowling, Spot's just shy of eighteen.

"I used ta'," Spot says after a long minute, pulling Race's attention back to the moment. "Think it was stupid, I mean. And the sorta crowd I ran with, well, they're the kinda folks where likin' something like that would get ya stomped. My old man even _thought_ I liked something so gay, he'd skin me himself." Race flinches and locks his jaw, both annoyed by the remark and sympathetic at the glimpse of Spot's upbringing.

Spot doesn't see the reaction, staring down at his knees. His hands flex against his arms, and he shifts them so he can run a thumb across one of the raised white scars on the back of his other hand. The Brooklyn drawl in his voice is stronger as he continues, "Thing is, though, when ya look like me, you start appreciatin' things for being pretty. And your dancin' is." Race feels heat flood his cheeks, and he hopes that the dying light hides his blush. Spot chuckles and glances up. "'Sides, I seen the muscle you got hidin' unda' that tutu. Can't say dancin' ain't a li'l bit badass too."

Race laughs at the tease, surprised, and he flips the other boy off even as the heat spreads into his ears. "Be more badass if I could land this jump I been working on," he says. "Got this audition end of summer, wanna nail it by then, but I keep messin' it up. Can't figure what I'm doing wrong and obv'sly I can't go to my classes to have my teacher help."

"Audition?" Spot asks curiously.

"With American Ballet Theatre," says Race, nodding. "They got this performance group for teens, tours 'round the whole country, and you gotta be damn good to get in. Only take a couple dozen kids a year. You get a spot with them, you're pretty much guaranteed a spot with a pro group after. Thing is, you gotta be 'tween sixteen and eighteen to get in, so I only got a few chances. And this is my shot, ya know? To get my foot in the door, get outta this place and away from my ma and her stuff, and finally make all these years of trainin' mean somethin'." He exhales again, feeling the anxiety starting to pick at his edges again, and distractedly wishes he had another cigarette.

"You miss it, huh?" Spot says. "The classes and stuff."

His laugh is a bit breathless and Race lets his head fall back, staring up at the blackening sky through the light pollution. "Like a drug," he admits, lips twisted at the raw irony. "They're hard, and my teacher's mean as hell, but there's nothing like that rush when you finally nail somethin' you've been practicing." He huffs. "Not that I ain't grateful for you letting me hide out here and all, really, but I'd kill to be back in a real studio."

When he drops his head back down, Spot is considering him intently. Just when Race is starting to feel uncomfortable at the staring and is about to say something, a slight smile flashes across Spot's mouth. "Never met no one like you 'fore, Racetrack Higgins."

Race smiles, pleased, as he gazes back at what he can see of Spot's face. "You gonna be offended if I say 'back at ya?'" he asks jokingly.

Spot snorts. "That ever stopped ya?"

Shaking his head, Race stands up and brushes off his pants. "Nah, guess not. Just don't wanna piss you off, this's most I've heard ya talk the whole time I been here. Don't wanna scare you away."

"'Tween the two of us, you think _youse_ the scary one?" Spot says sarcastically, glancing up at Race so the lights sneak in beneath the hood and show his scarred face in sharp relief. "Take more than your runnin' mouth to scare me."

"Oh, you wait, I'm just gettin' started," Race assures him. The grins they trade are daring and almost playful, and Race's stomach leaps at the sudden moment of camaraderie. "Anyway, I'mma go change and get some practice in 'fore bed. You comin'?"

"In a bit," Spot agrees, nodding. Accepting the dismissal, Race turns and leaves Spot to watching the sky in silence.

It's almost an hour later before Spot appears in the studio, dropping down into his usual place by the wall. They acknowledge each other with a silent nod and then Race throws himself back into his practice without another word. He's determined to land this stupid jump if it kills him (which he's considering is more likely at this point.) Competition for the dance company is fierce, and having a jump like this in his repertoire is the sort of thing that will give him an edge. So he takes a deep breath and moves.

One barrel jump, second, and-

"Fuck it!" Race growls when he hits the ground, rolling to cushion the landing. He's so close, he knows it, but he just can't get that last quarter rotation. He can't even blame the cracked ribs anymore, because those have stopped bothering him for the most part, only hurting if he hits them directly. No, this is just him not being good enough.

"That the one you tryna get?" Spot asks, startling Race. Spot rarely talks to him during rehearsals, except for the occasional muffled laugh if Race biffs it rather spectacularly.

"No, I keep landin' on my fuckin' face on purpose," Race snaps back irritably, flexing his legs to ease the ache in his knees and ankles.

Spot smirks, unperturbed by the misplaced anger. "What's'it called?"

"A 540," Race says. "S'pose to go a full turn and a half 'round, but I ain't quite makin' it all the way."

"Bit more of a 450 at that point then, ain't it?" Spot says, chuckling.

Grumbling to himself in a furious blend of English and Italian, Race flips Spot off again before moving back to position. He can do this. He just needs to figure out how to get a little extra force in the jump, a little extra torque. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, he takes a steady breath and tries again.

One, two, " _Merda_!"

Race tries the jump four more times and crashes every time, no matter how he tries to kick off harder or twist his upper body more forcefully. His knees and hips are screaming at the repeated contact with the floor, and he's sure to have brilliant bruises in the morning. He expects Spot to laugh at him again, but when he looks over, the other boy isn't even paying attention now, doing something on his phone.

Huffing in annoyance, Race shoves up off the floor and resolves to try one more time before he moves on to something else. On the final attempt, he comes so close to making it, but he only gets the outer edge of his foot to connect with the floor, and it nearly makes his ankle roll under him. He slams painfully into the ground, not able to soften the impact this time, and he flops down onto his back dramatically. " _Porca puttana! Scopare un cazzo!_ "

A snort of amusement from the wall makes Race tip his head back so he can see. Spot is watching him with a smirk. "One'a these days I gotta pull up Google translate on my phone, figure out what all that gibberish youse sayin' means," he remarks.

"Means I'm a fuckin' failure and I hate you and me and everythin' in the whole fuckin' world," Race mutters mutinously.

"Ah, makes sense," Spot says with a nod. Race flips him off upside down from where he's still lying on the floor. "'Kay, drama queen, get up."

Race blows a raspberry. "Nah, I'm good here," he says, sulking. "Floor's for failures."

Rolling his eyes, Spot stands and comes to loom over Race. "That's kinda my point," he says and holds out a hand. "So get up. I'm gonna fix ya problem."

"That so?" Race says skeptically. "Tough guy's suddenly an expert on ballet, huh?"

"Don't know jack-shit about ballet," says Spot. His hood's fallen off at some point, and the small grin on his lips is contorting the spiderweb of scarring on his face. "Physics and kinesiology, on the otha' hand..." He trails off with a challenging look that nudges the natural competitiveness in Race.

"A'right, smarty pants," Race says, accepting Spot's hand and letting the shorter boy pull him up - and he's surprised by how easily he does it; Spot's clearly hiding some muscle underneath the baggy hoodies he always wears. "You think you know better, what's your big idea?"

Spot gestures for Race to retake his start position, and then comes over to join him. "So best I can tell, you a'most got it but you ain't gettin' the torque to finish, right?" Spot says. "'Cause youse engagin' the wrong muscles. When ya land that jump before, you gotta sink in it to absorb the impact. Youse losin' too much force the way you're landin'. Then when you push off, youse usin' just the muscles in ya calf to jump, which ain't givin' you enough upward clearance."

"You even got a clue whatcha talkin' about?" Race asks, raising an eyebrow. "Or you just makin' it up as ya go?"

"Shaddup," Spot responds, shooting him a pointed look. "I'm tellin' ya, soften your knee when ya land the jump before. Then when you push, engage here," he taps the top of his thigh to demonstrate, "for the jump, and the obliques," he runs his palm along the side of his stomach, "for the twist. You'll get way more force outta it that way." When Spot meets Race's disbelieving gaze, a daring smirk crosses the shorter boy's lips. "Try it once. Betcha it works better than whatcha been doin'."

And fuck if Spot didn't just say the magic word - Race can't resist a good bet. He doesn't know where the hell Spot thinks he pulled this idea out of (although Race has to admit there's definitely some sense to it) but he's not about to pass up a gamble. "A'right, fine, get outta my way," he says, shooing Spot back towards the wall.

Race stretches his legs again, loosening up the tension that settled in while he was lying on the floor, and takes a deep breath. Can't hurt to try; (that's a lie, landing wrong or pulling a muscle could hurt _a lot_ , but it's a saying for a reason, right?) Race takes a long, slow breath, letting his head clear, and then moves.

The barrel jumps come naturally at this point, his body gliding through first one rotation and then the next. Keeping Spot's advice in mind, he pointedly unlocks his knee when he lands, then contracts every muscle between his knee and ribs as he pushes off the ground. He can feel the difference immediately, the extra strength behind the jump that sends him twisting up and around. He's so startled when his left foot hits the floor soundly that he overbalances and falls, tumbling in a heap across the hardwood.

"Y'okay?" Spot asks, crossing the studio in a half-jog.

Race doesn't care that his ankle is sore, that his hips and elbows are stinging from how hard he hit the ground. He sits up and he's beaming. "Fuckin' hell," he gasps out excitedly. "It worked. I've never been able to get enough turn before. That was amazing."

"You still wiped out," Spot points out, but his lips are curved in a shadow of a smile.

"You don't get it," Race says. "I been workin' on that jump for weeks. Been dancin' since I was five and I couldn't figure what I was doin' wrong. How the hell'd you know what to do?"

Spot shrugs and points to where his phone is lying on the floor in his usual seat. "Youtube."

Race glances from the phone to Spot in awe, his brain struggling to comprehend, and then he laughs. Shaking his head, he laughs until there are tears in his eyes. In front of him, Spot even manages to crack a proper smile for once. It takes several minutes for Race to control his giggles, and he stands up, drying his eyes on the collar of his shirt. "Youtube, seriously?" Race asks disbelievingly, still chuckling.

Shrugging again, Spot smirks. "Watched what it's s'posed to look like, compared ta' whatcha doin'," he says. "Don't know all the fancy dancin' names and stuff, but unda that, it's all basic physics, ya know? Force and inertia and torque."

Race regards the boy in front of him in awe, struck by the thought that this kid is way smarter than he lets on. He's never really thought about the science beneath the dance moves, it's always been more about the _feel_ for him, but there's no denying it worked. "I got no clue what your deal is, Spotty, but that was fuckin' awesome," he says, grinning. "Okay, outta my way, I gotta try that again."

And by the time he has to call it a night because his legs are starting to shake from exertion, Race can land his jump at least half the time. He says goodnight to Spot, who gives him an almost proud nod in reply, and then Race flops into bed. He grabs his phone to send a check-in text to his ma, and can't stop himself from adding on the good news.

Tossing his phone on his bedside table, Race rolls over and drifts off with an ecstatic grin on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I totally fell into that cheeky writing trope of using a second language to mask the character's cursing. Also, Italians are hilarious when it comes to vulgarity, their curses translate so great. 
> 
> For those without ballet experience, 540 jumps are hardcore. They're not often performed after barrel jumps in professional performances, but while training, the barrel jumps help to get the body into the right angles and planes to do it, so it's a good way to learn. Also, while rewatching Newsies Live the other day, I spotted at least three 540 jumps (including one by Ben Cook). There's a reason the show won Tonys for choreography.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why did I pick Sunday as my day to update? I mean, it's technically the start of my weekend but I'm never actually home to do my updates. We're moving updates to Mondays. I'm home more often on Mondays.

Race knows that something is up the morning that he comes downstairs to find the kitchen empty. In the weeks since he moved in, Davey has always been in the kitchen when Race gets up, sipping a cup of coffee and reading. Race pauses in the entrance to the kitchen in surprise, frowning. He knows Davey's awake because his bedroom was open when Race passed, but he's not here.

So where _is_ he?

Curious, Race starts back up the stairs, and his confusion only gets worse when he spots Jack's open bedroom door. Now _that's_ weird. Jack's almost never out of bed before nine unless he absolutely has to be. So they're both missing? Race has a distracted thought that maybe they finally decided to do something about the awkward love thing between them and went out for brunch or whatever old married couples do, before a loud thud from below startles him.

His studio? What would they be doing down there? And what the hell are they doing that's causing thumps? If they dent his floor... Race crosses the main hall and steps into the stairwell. As he rounds the curve, he sees Davey sitting on the ground outside the closed door to the shop.

"Race, good morning," the blind man says, overly bright, scrambling to his feet. Race starts down the stairs, and Davey subtly leans back to tap his knuckles against the studio door. "Uh, how are you?"

"Confused," Race answers, glancing from the man's faux-innocent expression to the closed door. "And now, suspicious."

Davey chuckles awkwardly, adjusting his tie in a nervous gesture. "Yeah, that makes sense," he says, trailing off with a hesitant laugh. "About that, just - can you just wait here for like-?"

The studio door suddenly opens just enough for Jack to slide through the gap and he hastily shuts it behind himself. Jack is sweating slightly, and he flashes a quick grin. "Hey, Race," he greets. "Uh, so, me and Dave's gonna get outta your way for a bit. Just, uh-" He pauses, rubbing the back of his neck distractedly. "We'll be upstairs if ya need anything, 'kay? C'mon, Davey."

"What're you two up to?" Race asks, brow furrowed. Wearing matching, secretive smiles, neither man answers as Davey hooks his hand around Jack's elbow and lets the other man lead him toward the stairs. Race barely waits for them to pass him before he bolts for the studio door.

All of the lights are on, the burnt out bulbs replaced, and it's brighter and airier than Race ever imagined it could be. It takes him a second longer to realize it's because the boards have been pulled off the windows, replaced with blinds that are opened just enough to let in sunlight without admitting curious eyes. Music is playing softly from a large stereo set up on the counter.

And on the other end of the room, Spot is shuffling in front of a row of four large mirrors mounted on the wall, spinning a hammer between his hands. "Spot, what-?" Race glances from him to a large stack of narrow cardboard flats next to him and his heart seizes up as he puts the pieces together.

"I ain't finished yet, obv'sly," Spot says, gesturing at the pile. "These things are way harder to put up than I thought. But Jack helped me figure it out, so gimme a day or two and should have the rest up."

Race walks carefully across the room, examining the stack of flats. The large bold text on the labels confirms his suspicions: an entire stack of wall-mounting full-length mirrors. "You-" It's been a long time since Race has found himself speechless, but his head is reeling as he tries to process what's happening.

"I know it ain't the same as your real studio," Spot says, wrapping his arms around himself in a move that's almost self-conscious. It's only now that Race notices he's abandoned his hoodie for once, and his sleeveless top reveals that his (well-defined) arms are covered in the same scars and tattoos as the rest of him. There's a row of those silver lines embedded in a loose, zagging spiral around one bicep. "But I thought if they'd help ya practice, that'd be good. You gotta nail that audition, right? It's not a very big spot but thought maybe could put one of them bars over there on that wall. Wanted ta' check with ya first, though, 'cause I don't know nothin' 'bout those and-"

Spot cuts off abruptly as Race throws his arms around him, his entire body stiffening in surprise. Race can't help himself, though. This is by far the nicest thing anyone has ever done for him, and if he didn't hug the stupid bastard, he might've started crying, and his pride can't handle that blow. It's a long moment before Spot unfolds his arms and awkwardly pats Race on the back, which is ridiculous enough to drag a small laugh from Race.

"This is seriously the coolest thing ever," Race says when he finally steps back - and he doesn't miss Spot's relieved exhale at the space. "I don't - I don't even know what to say."

"That's gotta be a first or somethin'," Spot comments sarcastically, and Race shoots him a withering look. "It's selfish, really," the other boy continues, shrugging. "I like watchin', and now youse gonna feel too guilty ta' ever kick me out."

Race snorts because it wasn't like he was going to kick the guy out anyway. He works better with someone watching, particularly when that someone is Spot with his intently focused stare. It drives Race to push himself to his limits, to try harder and be worth this strange person's unexpected and yet undivided attention.

Meeting Spot's gaze again, Race's retort dies on his tongue as his brow furrows curiously. "Huh, that's weird," he says, taking a half-step closer and squinting at the row of dots under Spot's eye that caught his attention that first day. One, two, three... "Could'a swore you had four spots."

Spot touches the edge of his eye socket and smirks. "Damn, Racer, good thing you got Davey tutoring you if ya can't even count."

"Shaddup," Race replies, shoving Spot's shoulder. "Ain't easy to get a good look when you're always hiding in the shadows like Dracula or somethin'. Think this is the first time I've seen ya in the lights." He glances around the room, heart leaping as they land on the stack of waiting mirrors, and he grins mischievously. "We better get to work, huh," he says, stooping to pick up an abandoned screwdriver Jack must've left behind.

"You gonna help now?" Spot asks appraisingly.

"Like I'd trust you and Jack not to fuck it up," he teases in response. "Gotta have someone in here who knows what they're doin'. 'Sides, can't get any practice in 'til this mess is cleaned up."

And even though Spot hurries to hide it, there's no missing the pleased smile that lights his eyes.

* * *

It takes them two days to get all of the mirrors mounted onto the wall, during which Race learns more about Spot than he has in the entire month previous. While Spot doesn't talk about himself much - and still refuses to give a name other than Spot - it's the little things Race picks up on that captivate him most.

Like the way that Spot is overly-cautious about everything that he says and does. He considers his words before he says them, and never uses more words than he absolutely needs to convey his point. His movements are careful and well-contained, as if he is constantly aware of what he is exposing in his body language and facial expressions. His eyes are always moving, casing the room at all moments in search of dangers and escape routes.

The only time his obsessive focus ever wavers is when he thinks Race isn't looking; out of the corner of his eye, Race sometimes sees a certain softening to his expressions or relaxation of his muscles.

Race isn't stupid. He's lived in the seedier parts of Manhattan a couple years now, and he's spent more than his fair share of time around dangerous people thanks to his mother. He recognizes the behaviors of someone who is used to anticipating worst-case scenarios at any moment and knows what sort of lifestyle causes that. He recognizes the defensive postures and whip-sharp reflexes of a fighter. It's not the twitchiness of someone who had one bad thing happen, and it made them paranoid; it's the ingrained behavior of someone who's had no choice but to be paranoid their whole life.

It doesn't take a genius to figure out that whatever he was doing before here, Spot grew up around some seriously sketchy shit.

More than that, though, Race notices things like Spot's interest in music. He doesn't ever sing along with the radio the way Race sometimes does, but there's more than a few times Race catches him silently mouthing the words as he works. When his hands aren't preoccupied, he sometimes drums out the beats with his fingers, silent against his leg but on rhythm enough to show he knows what he's doing, maybe even actually knows how to play drums a bit. His tastes skew more towards rock music, especially classic stuff, which Race feels fits him somehow.

"Who's this?" Race asks curiously during a song.

"Van Halen," Spot responds without hesitation, not even looking up from his hands. "Haggar, not Roth."

"I've heard this one 'fore," Race says. "S'good."

"First concert I ever went to," says Spot off-hand. When Race glances sideways at him curiously, he's got a small grin on his face. "Was fourteen. Ended up in a mosh. Someone chucked a shoe and it broke my nose. Was fuckin' awesome." Race falls over in a fit of giggles and Spot smiles a little wider.

The Brooklyn accent that flavors all of Spot's words, effortlessly rounding off the consonants and drawing down vowels, is another thing that catches Race's attention. It's the sort of accent that can't be picked up, the kinda one that transplants can never completely emulate no matter how long they live there, which means Spot definitely grew up in the area. The accent gets thicker when he's nervous, and it creeps in more as he gets tired, so by the end of the night, he sounds like a character from the old gangster flicks Papà liked to watch.

Despite the way he talks and acts, Spot is obviously smart. While measuring out the area for the barre, he does all the math aloud in a matter of seconds before Race can even start looking for a pencil to write it down. Spot seems to be self-conscious about it, considering the way he so carefully chooses words, but every once in a while he'll drop what Ma calls "five-dollar words" without blinking. He also always seems a bit flustered every time Race has to ask him to explain them.

(Spot scoffs and tosses a screw at Race. "I was bein' facetious," he says dryly.

"Bein' fa-what-now?" Race asks, bemused.

Ducking his head, Spot shrugs. "Sarcastic."

Race snorts. "So you used a smartass word to describe bein' a smartass," he concludes. "That's called _irony_." Spot still looks uncomfortable, but he rolls his eyes and throws another screw.)

In the end, it's the discovery of a little detail that leads Race to the most enlightening thing. Jack delivers lunch to them on the second day, a plate stacked with simple peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Race grabs one eagerly, hungry from a morning of manual labor, and then scoots the plate toward Spot when he makes no motion to grab his own. Spot glances down at the food and waves him off.

"You ain't eaten anything today," Race says, frowning.

"Thanks, Mom," Spot says mockingly, rolling a long screw between his fingers. When Race pointedly slides the plate toward him again, Spot smirks ruefully. "I'm allergic, a'right?"

Race glances from the plate to the other boy in surprise. "To what? Peanuts?" he asks curiously. Spot nods. "Then why-?"

"Jack don't know," Spot says, predicting Race's question. "Ain't ach'lly ate with them of'en enough for it to come up. Make my own food, mostly."

"You've been here _months_ and never bothered to mention that you're allergic to peanuts?" Race asks, torn between amused and horrified. "Fuck, we could'a killed ya by accident. Like what if I was cookin' with peanut oil, ya wouldn't even know it's in there. What the hell, dude?"

Spot snorts. "It ain't _that_ bad an allergy," he says. "And I got an epi-pen and all. S'fine. Like I said, make my own food most times." When Race continues to glare at him - simultaneously making a mental note to throw out any peanut-esque stuff in the kitchen - Spot shrugs. "Figure it's nice 'nough they bother ta' try. Not gonna make 'em work harder at a job they shouldn't even have ta' do."

Which is what reveals the most startling of the realizations Race has about Spot: the guilt. He's assumed that Spot's standoffishness came from a general dislike of people, or self-consciousness about his appearance, or (most likely) some hybrid of the two. By the end of that second day, though, Race is entirely confident that it stems more from some kind of deep-seated guilt over their place in his life.

"Wish the stupid guy'd just give it up," Spot mutters that evening after Jack checks in on them again with offers of help. Race thinks the boy's aiming for annoyance, but somehow he just sounds weary. "Bad 'nough he's stuck here, shouldn't have ta' do work that ain't needed too."

"What do you mean, stuck here?" Race asks in confusion.

"S'a contract work thing," Spot says, glaring at the bracket he's hanging like it personally offended him. "Him and Davey both. One year work for a payout."

Race considers that thoughtfully, frowning. "Jack said your dad hired 'em to take care of you 'cause he's not around."

Spot snorts. "Can't stand lookin' at his freakshow son, more," he says bitterly. He hits the nail hard enough that it puts a small dent in the wall, and he drops the hammer with a frustrated noise. Sitting down, he exhales heavily. "Nah, the old man stuck me here so he can pretend he's still bein' a parent 'til I turn eighteen and ain't legally his problem no more. I'd've left months ago, but the fellas don't get paid if anythin' happens to me."

"Sounds like you're even more trapped here than me," Race says before he can think better of it.

To his surprise, Spot doesn't deny it. "Ain't like there's much out there for a guy like me anyway."

"How'd it happen?" Race asks tentatively, encouraged by Spot's sudden openness.

The shorter boy smirks and shoots him a wry look. "Magic spell," he says. "Pissed off the wrong girl, turned out she was a witch. Hell hath no fury and all that."

Race scoffs, rolling his eyes. So much for the moment of honesty. "Right, sure," he says skeptically. "Hey, could'a been worse, though; you could'a knocked her up." Spot snorts back a laugh. "So, what're you gonna do when you turn eighteen?"

"Dunno," says Spot, shrugging. "Ain't been thinkin' that far ahead, honestly. Just sorta tryna get to that point first, go from there. Once Jack and Davey's gone, I'll figure it out. Just don't wanna screw them over, 'cause they both need the money."

"Do they?" Race asks. He can see Jack needing money - the guy's admitted he grew up in foster care, and he's bounced through jobs while practicing art on the side - but he's never really thought about Davey that way. He's got a family and a fancy college degree. He should be fine, shouldn't he?

Spot nods. "Jack got tangled up in some legal stuff, money'll help him sort that out," he says, and Race can tell he's purposefully evasive about the details. "And if he got some left over, can put it into his art, get that off the ground. And Dave, he's been havin' a hard time finding work. Smart as hell, but folks don't wanna hire him 'cause his eyes. Why pay to fit out a classroom for a blind teacher when you can hire a seein' one for less?"

"That's fuckin' stupid. He's a good teacher," Race says fervently. They've only had two classes so far - taking over that afternoon gap when Race used to tag along while Jack worked on the house - but he's already learning. It's different than he's used to since they do everything orally, but Davey comes alive when he's giving passionate lectures about history and science and literature, and the enthusiasm is infectious. "He's better than any the teachers I had in school. Least you can tell Davey cares if you get it."

"He's a good guy," Spot agrees. "Both are, really. Ain't fair they got roped into this just 'cause they need the cash. Don't need to keep doin' work that ain't needed. I keep tellin' 'em to stop, but they listen 'bout as well as you."

Race can tell it's meant to be a deflection, a jab to provoke a response out of him so that he'll change the subject. For a minute, he's tempted to call Spot on it, but then he takes a good look at him. Spot's entire body is practically vibrating with tension, his ragged knuckles bleached white with how tightly his fists are clenched, and there's a wild light to his eyes like a cornered animal.

So Race blows a raspberry and tosses one of the spare wall brackets at the side of Spot's head. "Listen to you, actin' like you don't like us," he teases sarcastically. " _Puh_ -lease. If it ain't for us, you'd just sit and lurk up in that room of yours 'til ya died."

Spot laughs, rolling his eyes, but there's something impossibly sad about his smile. Before Race can really process that, the expression is gone again and Spot gestures toward the waiting mirror. "C'mon, this's the last one," he says. "Help me hang it and then we's done."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild TW: this chapter does include a more direct mention of drug abuse & its consequences. Nothing graphic, but I figured I better put this here just in case.

The next day, Spot doesn't show up for Race's dance practice.

Race tries not to think about it, but as the first hour bleeds into the second, he can't stop his gaze from flicking to the door more often than not. Truth be told, he hasn't seen Spot all day, which isn't entirely unheard of but feels significant in the wake of the last few days. He can't concentrate, stumbling his way through moves and exercises he could normally do in his sleep. Even still, he stretches his practice out longer than usual, half-hoping that Spot just lost track of time and he'll come slinking in with a sour expression and eyebrow raised in challenge.

It's past midnight by the time he finally gives up and goes to bed, toes and knees aching from so many bad landings. He sleeps in fits and bursts, alternating between concerned and annoyed that he cares so much, and he's surly the next morning when he comes down for breakfast at his regular time.

"Someone wake up on the wrong side of the bed?" Davey asks when Race growls impatiently at the coffee maker for not being finished yet.

"Didn't sleep good," Race mutters off-hand, shrugging. He props a hip against the counter. Across the breakfast bar, Davey's gaze is focused loosely in his direction, that expression of polite concern on his face that always manages to effortlessly crumble Race's resolve. "You seen Spot?" he asks, and then clears his throat when he realizes his mistake. "I mean, not _seen_ , obviously. But you heard him around?"

Davey's lips quirk, amused at the comment. "No, he hasn't been down," he answers. "Think he snuck out for a ride sometime around three in the morning. Other than that, he's been sticking to his room." Race makes an agitated noise, turning his attention to the coffee maker as it sputters out the last of the pot. "Don't worry about him, Race," Davey says reassuringly.

"Ain't worried," Race counters, irritated for a reason he can't quite explain. He busies himself with pouring two cups of coffee, adding a splash of creamer to one for Davey. "Just wondering."

"Right, sure," Davey says, and his tone is clearly humoring. "These last few days, that's the most time Spot's spent around anyone in months. He probably just needs a little time to himself. It's an introvert thing. I get the same way sometimes too."

Race slides a coffee mug across the counter until it nudges Davey's fingertips, and the blind man acknowledges the gesture with a nod. "You do?"

"Sometimes it's just hard to be around people," Davey explains, stirring his coffee. "I'm not like you and Jack; I get exhausted when I have to deal with people for a long time. I need time to be alone, you know? Sometimes I just need a day or two to re-center, be by myself and not have to think about other people."

Humming, Race blows on his coffee distractedly as he considers that. He doesn't really understand how that works. He's always been the sort of person who likes having others around him all the time, except sometimes when he's having anxiety, but that's more out of shame of feeling weak than anything. Being all alone unsettles him. "So it's like you got a social limit?" he asks to clarify. "Like, you can only take so much talking and stuff before you gotta go away and reset the meter to zero or somethin'?"

Davey smiles appreciatively. "That's a pretty good way to think about it," he agrees. "And Spot's meter just maxed out about three times over. He just needs a day, he'll come around. Give him some time."

So Race does.

He goes about his usual business for the next few days and determinedly tries not to obsess about the empty patch of floor in the studio that Spot usually occupies. They have a Harry Potter marathon, and Race laughs himself silly when Jack and Davey get into an animated argument about nerdy little details excluded from the films. (Then they find out Race hasn't read past the first book and he winds up assigned reading homework that he guarantees has nothing to do with NY state curriculum.)

Jack helps Race paint his bedroom a soothing soft green to make it feel homier. Davey teaches him how to play chess, and he somehow manages to catch it when Race tries to cheat despite not being able to see the board. Race smokes his last two cigarettes. And he practices until his feet are screaming, starting to choreograph the routine he'll use for his audition because dancing until he's exhausted enough to fall over is the only way he can make his racing brain sleep.

A half-hour into the fourth evening when Spot still hasn't emerged from his room, Race decides that enough is enough. He goes deliberately up the stairs, ignoring the cautioning remarks that Jack and Davey toss his way when he passes the living room. Although he's never been inside before, he knows that Spot's claimed the top floor bedroom for himself, (mostly because of the number of times he complains about Race being noisy on his way to the roof.) Race marches up to the closed door at the top of the stairs and hammers his fist against it.

"Spot, I know you're in there," he hollers through the wood. He tips his head, listening for any response, but gets none. "Open the fuckin' door, Spot." Still nothing. "You don't answer, I'mma come in anyway," he threatens. Race stands there, tapping his foot impatiently for a full minute, before nodding. Okay, then, if that's the way Spot wants to play it.

Race jogs back down the stairs to his bedroom, digging out his key ring, before heading back up. Among the keys for his apartment and bike lock and school locker, there's a small keychain that conveniently unfolds into a long, thin piece of metal. Race crouches down and bites his tongue, concentrating as he inserts the lockpick into the doorknob, and in less than three seconds, the door clicks open.

"Warned ya," Race announces as he stands up and pushes the door.

"The _fuck_ , Race!"

The furious protest isn't what makes Race stop short just inside the doorframe. Spot has bolted up from the desk chair where he was sitting, and he's now standing in a pointedly aggressive posture. Race's focus, however, isn't on the scowl on his face but lower.

Spot is wearing only a pair of sweatpants, slung a little low on his hips in a way that's just shy of sinful. His chest and torso are bare and well-muscled, everything about him strong and compact, the lines and definition making Race's mouth a little dry. He already suspected that Spot's built under the baggy hoodies he wears so often, but actually _seeing_ the rigid shape of his abs is a different story entirely.

And of course, there are the marks. His skin is littered with the same black tattoos and white scars as the rest of him, runes of some long-forgotten language spelling out stories on his flesh. There's a series of long gashes on his left pectoral that curl around his ribs below his arm, silver dashes like the ones on his eyebrow staggered along the length of the cuts. It would look like medical staples, were it not for the fact that the metal is twisted and deformed where it fuses into his skin in a way that _can't_ be natural. Race spares another horrified thought for what agonizing torture this guy must've been put through to end up like this.

"Ain't anyone ever taught ya it's rude ta' stare?"

That manages to shake Race out of his thoughts, and his eyes flick up to Spot's face again. Despite the bitter twist of his lips, his eyes are wide with something far closer to fear. So Race snorts loudly. "Just appreciatin' the irony that you once accused _me_ of being the one with secret muscles," he says, rolling his eyes flippantly.

Some of the tension eases out of Spot's shoulders, but he's still glaring as he folds his arms over his chest and squares off with Race. "Door was locked for a reason, Higgins," he says flatly. "Ta' most folks, that's a sign ya don't wanna be bothered. How'd ya even-?" His gaze lands on Race's keys, which are still hanging from the doorknob. "Oh, fa' Chrissakes..."

"What? You think a kid like me don't know how to pick a lock?" Race says in reply to the look.

"Ballerina's got a criminal streak, huh?" Spot sneers.

It's a blatant, underhanded attempt to provoke him, but Race feels his hackles rise all the same. " _Ballerina_ got a junkie ma who liked to lock herself in the bathroom to shoot up," he spits back venomously.

(He still remembers the first time it happened. No matter how hard he hammered on the door, she wouldn't respond, and he was so sure she'd overdosed, so sure he was about to lose another parent so soon after the first. Those doctor bills had been expensive when he panicked and called the paramedics, not to mention the threat of child protective services taking him away. In the end, it was easier to get one of their nicer, sketchy neighbors to teach him to pick a lock, so Race could check on her himself whenever she passed out, and save them the police attention.)

Spot seems to flinch slightly at that, averting his gaze. Getting himself back on track, Race lifts his chin and folds his arms, mirroring Spot's posture. "You're avoiding me."

"Well, ain't someone got a mighty high 'pinion of himself," Spot counters acerbically.

Race scoffs. "Don't bullshit me. It might work on the other two, but I ain't buying it."

"Maybe I just got sick of dealin' with ya, ever think of that?" Spot says.

"Nope, still ain't buying," Race retorts. "'Cause see, we had a good time the last couple days, and then you up and disappear completely? The fellas think you're bein' shy but that ain't it, is it? You're scared 'cause you actually had a good time bein' around someone and you don't know how to handle that. You're so damn caught up in bein' some sort of outcast hermit, it freaks you out that there's people you like that actually like you too."

Spot pitches his weight to one side, raising an eyebrow skeptically. "That so, Dr. Freud?"

Race scoffs. "Screw you, smartass, I know that's the guy was obsessed with dicks," he says. Spot ducks his head, but Race doesn't miss the brief glimmer of a surprised smile that flashes across his face before he can school his features back into something neutral.

"So here's the deal," Race continues resolutely, taking a step forward. "I don't know what's up with whatever stupid guilt complex you got going on, but I ain't gonna just sit around and let you keep hiding out here in some sorta self-hate spiral. When I made that joke about you lurkin' up in your room 'til you die, it was a fuckin' joke, _idiota_. So guess what? You've had your tantrum, and now it's over. Get your shit together and stop poutin' in the corner like a baby."

The shock on Spot's face is blatant now, openly staring at Race with eyes wide. There's a long, tense moment where that hangs in the air between them. Race is about ninety-percent sure he's about to get chucked out on his ass when Spot finally clears his throat.

"Had that saved up for a while, didja?"

"Few days, yeah," Race agrees, and some of the anxiety loosens from his shoulders too. "You been stressin' me out and I'm outta smokes and Jack won't buy me more."

Spot grins smugly. "Good, least he listens ta' me 'bout something."

Race narrows his eyes. " _Bastardo_." The other boy isn't fazed, meeting his eyes levelly. "Whatcha been doin' up here all this time anyway?"

It's only now that Race finally bothers to take a good look around the large bedroom that takes up almost the entire top floor of the building. The half nearest the door is something like a study, with the desk where Spot was sitting, a laptop open on the surface, and an entire row of bookshelves filled to bursting. In the opposite corner is a huge, unmade bed covered in a heap of tangled blankets and pillows. In the part of the room that narrows to accommodate the staircase, there's a door that Race assumes leads to an ensuite bathroom.

"Avoidin' you, mostly," Spot says pointedly, drawing Race's attention back to him.

"Ha, so you admit you was avoiding me," Race says with a smug grin.

"Anyone would need a break from ya," Spot counters. "Youse annoyin' as fuck."

"Yeah, sure, whatever ya say," Race responds sarcastically. His gaze drifts curiously to the open laptop; Spot immediately reaches behind himself and shuts it without looking away from Race. Rolling his eyes, Race flaps a hand impatiently. "Honestly, I don't really care whatcha was doing. Here's the thing: I'm tryna work on my audition piece, and at some point, it's got weird to _not_ have someone laughing at me from the corner when I fall on my face. And I got this awesome new studio that I ain't been able to practice in proper, so you mind getting your head outta your ass so I can practice without bein' distracted?"

Spot cocks a hip against his desk chair, expression unimpressed. "Since when did I start answering ta' you?"

Feeling ballsy, Race echoes his position and smirks. "Since the first time I told you to wait and you did, even though you didn't have to," he answers. "So get a move, 'cause I've already lost an hour of practice tonight."

With that parting shot, Race turns on his heel and leaves the room, snagging his keys back from the door on his way out. His heart is pounding against his ribs almost painfully as he makes his way back down to the studio, pausing only to shoot annoyed glances at Jack and Davey, who are making concentrated efforts to look like they weren't eavesdropping by the stairs on his way down.

There's a solid chance that he just drove the wedge straight through whatever sort of friendship's been forming between him and Spot. It's taken so long for them to get to the point they were at, and calling Spot out on his bullshit is a big gamble, even if it's the only way to get through to someone as stubborn as him, (something Race only knows because he's just as bad.) He determinedly doesn't let himself over-analyze things as he turns on the stereo and starts stretching out the tension that's built up in his muscles, and it takes all of his willpower to keep his eyes off the door.

Exactly seventeen minutes later - not that Race is counting - the studio door opens and Spot slips in. He sits down in his usual place, hunkering down inside his big, black hoodie, and then his eyes finally meet Race's. "Not a word," he says warningly, the faintest hint of a smile hovering around the corners of his lips.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Race says with a shit-eating grin, but his chest feels warm as he throws himself back into his routine.

The work comes easier now that his world is all back in order. Race goes through what he's gotten choreographed so far, relying on the feedback from the slumped hoodie in the corner to tell whether the work looks good or not. It's a subtle thing, but after a few weeks of dancing without mirrors to watch himself, he's gotten used to watching for Spot's opinion instead; the way he snorts under his breath when something looks weird or how he'll lean forward attentively when Race does something cool. It's hardly science, but it helps.

After an hour, when he's gotten through what little he's already written, he pauses the music and takes a break. Race drops down to sit on the floor near Spot and tugs off his shoes to stretch out his feet, sore from several days of abuse. As he starts kneading at the tight muscles along the sole of his foot, Spot leans over with his eyes wide. "Dude, youse feet's _fucked up_."

Race snorts. "And I bet yours are so pretty," he shoots back with a sly smirk.

"Seriously, ya look like ya went through some sorta mafia interrogation torture," Spot says and there's something like genuine concern in his gaze when he looks up to meet Race's eyes. "Someone take a hammer to your toes or somethin'?"

It's a sight that Race is so used to at this point that he doesn't even think about it. Flexing his toes, he tries to see his feet the way they'd look to someone who doesn't do ballet. There are large, pale calluses staggered along the balls of his feet and heels, the skin discolored and hard. His toes are slightly stunted, the knuckles misshapen and some of the nails off-center. "Dancers' feet," he says, shrugging. "Ya should see some'a the girls' feet. They're way worse than mine 'cause they do pointe."

"What's that?" Spot asks curiously.

"On your toes," says Race. "Like, you ever seen ballet stuff when the person gets up on the tips of their toes and dances? That's called _en pointe_. Guys don't get to do it much in performances and stuff, but my teacher made us all learn it anyway 'cause it's good training. Builds diff'rent muscles, ya know? I'd show ya but I don't have my pointe shoes. I always kept 'em at the studio 'cause they're custom order and fucking expensive. Wasn't risking Ma or her friends trashing 'em."

Spot's brow furrows thoughtfully. "You gotta have diff'rent shoes for that?"

Moving on to massaging his ankles, Race nods. "They got a hard box in the toe, like this square of super compressed fabric and stuff, so you got somethin' flat to balance on."

"A what?" Spot echoes, eyes wide. "No wonda your feet's all fucked up, walkin' 'round on your toes like that. That's stupid. Don't that hurt?"

Race barks a laugh. "Sure, 'til ya get used to it," he agrees. Spot gives him an incredulous look. "What? All sports are like that. Like, you said you like boxing, right? Don't punching stuff hurt your hands at first?"

"That's what the gloves' for, idiot. And boxin' didn't give me twisted mutant fingers," Spot replies, smirking. Then he glances down at his hands in his lap, eyeing the scars and scabs on his thick knuckles. "Managed ta' do that all my own."

"Well hey, least you can feel better knowin' you got prettier feet than me," Race points outs with a grin.

The shorter boy scoffs and rolls his eyes indulgently. "Oh lucky me, least I still got somethin' ta' charm the folks with. Here's ta' my future with all'a the foot fetishists," he says dryly.

"Kink shamer," Race teases accusingly. "Bet some of them folks are super nice. Not that I'd know, 'cause they's obviously gonna stay the hell away from my 'mutant toes.'" He says the term in a mocking approximation of Spot's deep Brooklyn drawl, grinning, and Spot elbows him in retaliation.

"Well, ya sure better work on somethin' 'cause youse personality ain't gonna win ya no favors," Spot says, traces of a smile lingering in the creases at the corners of his eyes.

Race kicks him playfully. "Fuck you, I'm adorable." Spot gives him an unconvinced look in response. Flipping him off, Race flops dramatically onto the floor. "I dunno, maybe youse right," he says thoughtfully, shrugging. "Ain't like I was super popular or nothin'. I've never been good at makin' friends. Like you said, I can be annoying."

"Oh c'mon," Spot says, nudging him. "Don't get all emo 'bout it, was kiddin'. You ain't _that_ bad."

Race snorts. "Thanks," he says sarcastically. He tucks his arms under his head, staring up at the ceiling. "Was kinda true, though. I don't know, never really had time for anythin' that wasn't dance. Anythin' and anyone else just wasn't worth the time, ya know? Think the only reason me and Specs' been friends so long is 'cause we's been in the same dance group since we were like seven."

"Ain't you got some pretty ballerina swoonin' over your fancy moves?" Spot asks, and there's a sincere curiosity beneath the faint chuckle.

The idea makes Race break out in a fit of giggles. "First of all, _fancy moves_ ?" he echoes, raising an eyebrow mockingly. Spot flips him off. "Secondly, not into chicks, and even if I was, I _so_ wouldn't be datin' a ballerina. Way too high-maintenance."

Spot smirks. "Never would'a guessed, since youse so low-key and all," he says with a snort. Race sticks out his tongue; he's not high-maintenance, he just knows what he wants and how to get it. Spot picks at a loose string on the pocket of his hoodie distractedly. "So, youse, ya know, gay?"

"Got a problem with it?" Race responds, glancing at the other boy flatly.

"Didn't say that," Spot counters, holding up a hand in a pacifying gesture. "Just askin'."

Race nods, the defensiveness sliding away. "Yeah, I'm gay," he says. "Sorry, I get a bit jumpy. Got a lotta shit for it 'fore. Most folks assume I am just 'cause I'm a dancer, ya know? Pisses me off. Like, stupid shit like that's why I a'most quit dance when I was younger. Got tired of bein' the token twink." He doesn't notice that he's tensed up until his scalp starts burning where his fisted hands are tugging at his hair, and he forces himself to take a deep breath. "So now I'm just the obnoxiously hyper-focused twink with nothing else goin' for him but a shot-in-the-dark pipe dream."

"Ain't a shot in the dark if youse on target," Spot says, tone soft but resolute. Race looks over at him curiously. The corner of Spot's mouth twitches in a shadow of a smile. "I dunno what a 'twink' is, but I do know youse gonna get this dancin' job. Met a lotta real ambitious people in my life but never no one who chases somethin' like you do. So whatever 'bout your mom and your friends and boyfriends and all. Youse gonna be the one laughin' when you're out tourin' the world and they's all still stuck here bein' boring ordinary folks."

It takes Race a long second to process all of what Spot said, partly because he's so surprised to hear Spot say that much at all. He's managed to work up to getting a sentence or two at a time out of Spot over the last few days, but this is the first time he's ever heard Spot say so much at once and with such open emotion in his voice. Race pushes up onto his elbows to meet the shorter boy's gaze better. "Ya think so?" he asks and can't completely mask the hope in his voice.

"Know so," Spot responds without hesitation.

A comforting warmth blossoms in Race's chest and he grins. He's been complimented on his dancing countless times throughout his career, by strangers and professionals alike. Race knows that he's good enough to really do this, knows that he's put in the hours and training and commitment. But somehow, the firm belief from this guy who knows nothing about dance, who is so withdrawn from the world and passionate about so few things, reassures him far more than any of the others.

"Thanks, Spotty," Race says, smiling. He sits up and nudges Spot with his elbow, chuckling. "Ya really dunno what a twink is?"

Spot shrugs. "I'm guessin' it's a gay thing, right?" he says, sending Race into another burst of snickers. "Yeah, don't really know much 'bout gay stuff. Never really known any, 'fore you and Davey. And whateva Jack is, I guess."

Race laughs. "It's called bi," he supplies. "Means he likes both. Seriously, though, you don't know otha gay folks? This's New York, we're kinda all over the place 'round here."

"Not ones that talk 'bout it at least," Spot says and some of the humor has slid out of his tone. "It wasn't the kinda thing that was okay with the sorta folks I ran with, so even if they was, they sure didn't say it."

Race's smile flickers, and he remembers the passing comment Spot made so many days ago, implying that his father would kill him for even hinting at being gay. A suspicion takes root and Race can't stop himself from asking, "What about you?"

"I'm not gay," Spot says, voice hard and flat, the response coming so fast it sounds more like a knee-jerk reaction than an actual answer. Race tips his head curiously, frowning when Spot now firmly refuses to meet his gaze. The shorter boy is a ball of tension, practically shaking with it as he curls tighter into himself.

"Okay," Race says, nodding slowly. "Okay, no worries, was just curious." Spot's chin jerks in a faint echo of a nod. "But ya know, wouldn't matter if you was."

Spot manages a small, amused snort. "Sure don't, ain't like I's gonna be datin' anyway, lookin' like this," he says.

"Except the foot fetishists," Race reminds him, smirking. Spot laughs under his breath, and he seems to deflate as the tension bleeds out of his muscles. "Nah, gimme five minutes with ya phone, I betcha I can get ya ten Tinder dates," Race continues. "Lots'a chicks dig tats, and you sorta got a bad boy vibe goin' on. Can hook those crazy ones that always wanna save the dangerous boy, ya know? And one pic of your abs'll getcha five dates on their own, easy."

A startled laugh bursts out of Spot and he finally meets Race's eyes again, one eyebrow arched in amusement. "You checkin' me out, Higgins?"

"Don't flatter ya'self," Race replies with a grin. "Even if you were gay, you ain't my type. I like tall guys."

"Oh fuck off," Spot says, shoving him over, but there's a smile hovering at the corner of his mouth. "I'm not short. I'm five-seven, that's average."

"Whatever helps ya sleep at night, _piccolo_ ," Race says and then hastily scoots back when Spot kicks at him. "'Cept _I'm_ five-seven, and you're shorter than me. S'okay, everyone knows most fellas like to add an inch or two to everythin'." He winks and then promptly shields his head when Spot throws one of his own shoes at him. "Hey, not nice, those shoes ain't cheap. You're lucky I'm a forgivin' kinda guy so we can still be friends."

And Spot freezes as abruptly as if he's turned to stone, a strange, bemused expression crossing his face. He licks his lips, brow furrowed, and Race is just about to ask if he's having a stroke or something when Spot says, "We's friends?"

The question is full of so much awe and confusion, almost like a child discovering some new wonder of the world for the first time, even if Spot's making an attempt to keep his voice normal. Race forces himself not to gape at Spot as the insinuation hits him. Has Spot never had friends before?

So Race slides back over to the other boy's side. "Yeah, we're friends," he says, nodding. "Course we are." Spot is staring at his hands intently like he's attempting to puzzle out some complex riddle. "And ya know, Jack and Davey, they wanna be your friends too, if ya let 'em. They like ya. We all do, even if you're an ass sometimes. Or, ya know, most the time, really."

Spot huffs, one of those quiet laughs like he's trying not to but can't help it. There's a long minute, heavy with anticipation, before Spot lifts his head. "Don't really sound like I got a say in this," he says. "Guess I'm stuck with ya, huh?"

"Pretty much," Race agrees, beaming. "Sorry, Spotty, but looks like you got ya'self a new best friend. Sucks to be you." Spot chuckles but there's a soft smile hidden in the lines of his face. "A'right, bestie, where'd ya hide my other shoe? I gotta get some more practice in 'fore bed."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh these silly stubborn boys, they're so impossible. Also, random side note, Tommy Bracco is actually 5'4". He's such a tiny loaf!
> 
> Also, dancer's feet is a legit thing. It's bad in all forms for dance, anyone who dances a lot will get stress fractures and calluses and stuff, but pointe ballet seriously fucks your feet up. You are balancing a hundred percent of your body weight on the tips of your toes, that's a lot of pressure on some very tiny bones. My first pair of pointe shoes were super old-school and had a wooden block in the toes instead of the more common "hard box" they use nowadays. I lost three toenails (one of which never grew back, weirdly), and even though it's been years since I stopped dancing, one of my toes won't straighten all the way.


	9. Chapter 9

Without a word of warning, Spot apparently makes some sort of executive decision to become an active member of the household, changing the entire dynamic of the house overnight.

Race is rinsing his breakfast dishes when Spot wanders in, pours himself a cup of coffee, and takes the vacant barstool beside Davey. Race almost drops his plate in surprise, and Davey's only slightly better at masking his shock. The blind man clears his throat and smiles. "Morning."

Spot grunts in response and takes a sip of coffee. After a beat, he says, "Jack's right, ya make good coffee." He glances up, and Race hastily turns back to the sink to hide his wide-eyed expression.

Sure, Spot comes and goes as he pleases, but he's never really actively engaged with the rest of them. He lingers at the edges, hovers outside the doors, but he doesn't _join_ things. Yet there he is, sitting at the breakfast bar drinking coffee like Race was doing just twenty minutes ago like it's totally normal.

Race wants to ask, his curiosity itching under his skin, but he's scared that calling attention to it will just make Spot go away again. So Race finishes washing his dishes and dries his hands. "I'll be downstairs if you need me," Race says, more for Davey's benefit than anything. When the other two nod, Race doesn't have any more excuse to dawdle, so he turns and heads for the door.

He's just rounding the frame into the hall when he hears Spot clear his throat uncomfortably. "So, Davey... how, uh, how's ya been?" he asks, clearly flustered and uncertain. It's so uncomfortable it's almost painful; Race hastily jams his knuckles into his mouth to muffle his laughter, and he picks up his pace to get downstairs before they can hear him. He doesn't want to make Spot feel self-conscious about his attempt to be social, but Jesus Christ, he's just so _awkward_.

Except when Race comes back up after his morning exercises, there's nothing awkward about the intent conversation that Davey and Spot are having in the living room. They sit on either end of the sofa, Davey talking in that animated way he does when he gets excited, with rambling sentences and fluttery hand gestures. Spot is controlled and calm in his responses, that same consciousness of his words he always has, but he's clearly invested in the conversation, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees to catch every word. Race is so surprised by the scene that it takes him a second to process the words.

"The language is so _florid_ ," Davey bemoans, nose wrinkled up in disgust. "He drags out simple explanations into full pages of details in overly-complex wording."

"It's 'bout the imagery," Spot says, shrugging. "Paintin' a picture with words."

"Yeah, I wouldn't know about pictures, would I?" Davey jokes wryly.

"Use your imagination," Spot shoots back with a faint smirk. "And it's not just the actual words, but the rhythm and stuff. Like, choppy sentences to make it fast. Or playin' with sounds. S'why you get all that alliteration. Repetition drives the point home, ya know?"

Davey scoffs. "I'm just saying that people would be a lot less resistant to reading his poetry - or poetry in general - if it weren't such a chore to decipher. Why do I have to read two stanzas about the glory of the summer sky and the power of the ocean waves just to find out he's talking about his love interest having blue eyes? The point of language is to convey meaning, not obscure it."

" _Dio mio_ ," Race interrupts, glancing back and forth between the two of them in awe. "You guys are such _nerds_."

Spot ducks his head even as he flips Race off, while Davey throws a decorative pillow in Race's direction with frightening accuracy. "Get outta here," Davey says, shaking his head. "Go shower, you smell disgusting. And I _will_ remember that nerd comment when we start class."

When Race gets back from his shower, Jack and Davey are bickering as they make lunch in the kitchen, Spot watching with a bemused grin. He catches Race's eye and nods toward the two men who are none-too-subtly flirting through subtext, and Spot rolls his eyes. Race laughs and slides up onto the stool at the breakfast bar beside him.

Spot disappears for a little while after lunch, but he reemerges halfway through Race's daily lessons with Davey - where the blind man does, in fact, exact revenge for the nerd comment by focusing the majority of their class on math, which is Race's worst subject. Although Spot doesn't participate, spending most of the time doing something on his laptop, Race knows he's paying attention because he huffs a laugh when Race struggles or nods along when Davey's explaining formulas.

Jack cleans off the dining table, and they use it for the first time since Race has been there - and possibly the first time _ever_ \- to have dinner that night. It's weird to be sitting down at the table to eat like a family, but it's also weirdly comforting. When's the last time Race sat down for a meal? That weekend he stayed at Specs' place? The conversation is still run primarily by the three of them, Spot interjecting with the occasional sarcastic aside, and Race laughs more than he can remember doing in a long time.

Then Spot trails after Race when he moves down to the dance studio, taking his usual position and watching, just like always. Race polishes his jumps, rewrites some of his choreography, and, after much grumbling, manages to piece together almost another hundred counts of work. Spot talks to him a little bit when he's taking breaks, offering teasing criticisms about the choreography and joking about Jack and Davey.

It's somehow exactly the same as normal, and yet it feels entirely different. Race wonders, that night as he says goodnight to Spot on his way to bed, if this is a one-time thing. Then Spot emerges while Davey and Race are just finishing coffee the next morning, and the whole thing starts all over again.

Race thinks such a dramatic shift should feel weird, but it doesn't. It feels - _right_. Like something that's been out of alignment has finally snapped into place. It reminds him of his Papà's old vinyl record player, and that deep, resonant noise it made when the needle slipped into the groove where it belonged.

Life in the 'Refuge' feels like it's finally settled into its groove.

Of course, as Race's life in the house gets smoother, his life from outside continues to spiral downward. The Fourth of July comes and goes with another warning text from Specs that Weasel was seen hanging around outside their performance showcase. He was already told at the beginning of the summer that since he failed his school courses, the scholarship to pay for his dance company has been revoked. After the missed performance, Race gets an email from his dance teacher informing him that he's being dropped entirely from the company for too many absences.

To top things off, his ma doesn't seem to be making any progress with smoothing things over with Weasel. Race still checks in with her every few days, and she usually responds within a few minutes, shooting back a quick text to let him know she got the message and occasionally to comment on whatever little tidbit he tells her about what he's been up to. Then, the third day after Spot joins the rest of them, she doesn't answer.

Race tries not to be bothered by it, but he can't stop the itch of anxiety at the back of his skull. It only occurs to him then that he doesn't even know where she's at, doesn't know where she's been hiding out all this time or if it's safe. He spends all day checking his phone every five minutes and then getting mad at himself for doing it. His lack of cigarettes hits him especially hard during this, the withdrawal making him snappish and irritable. Race is half-tempted to go try and bum a smoke off someone on the street, but Jack watches him like a hawk after refusing once again to buy any for him.

A dull thrumming sound drags Race from his sleep, and he blinks around blearily. It takes him a second longer to realize the noise is his phone vibrating against the side table. Race snatches it up, barely taking a moment to see 'Ma' on the caller ID before he slides the button to accept the call. "S'three in the mornin'," he grumbles into the phone, flopping back onto the pillow.

"Tony?" His ma's voice is breathless and shaky, and it sends a jolt of adrenaline down Race's spine that makes him sit up attentively.

" _Mamma, stai bene_?" he asks, reverting to Italian without noticing.

"Shhh!" Ma hisses into the phone. "He'll hear. He'll know it's you."

Race frowns, throwing off the covers and climbing out of bed. "Ma, what's going on? Who's with you?" He slips quietly out of his room, heading downstairs toward the foyer so he can talk without worrying about waking anyone else up. "What's wrong, Ma? You okay?"

"He's gonna know," his ma moans. The nervous waver in her voice picks up, and he can hear her panting on the other end of the line, a harsh, ragged gush of breath against the receiver. "Gotta know. You safe? 'Cause he's gonna know."

"What are you talking about?" Race asks, confused.

"He's _listening_ ," Ma says. "Can't shake 'em. He's comin', I can hear him. Gonna find me. Gonna find us."

"Ma, what-?" Race is halfway to the front door when the answer hits him like a bolt of lightning, leaving him numb. His ma only ever gets paranoid like this when- "Are you _high_?"

"What? No, Tony, he's gonna find me," his ma responds, her words stumbling over each other in her haste. Now that he's listening for it, he recognizes the faint slur that he mistook for the late hour, the fast breathing and disjointed sentences. Race's witnessed far too many of her bad trips not to know what she's like, and the truth sinks into him like a lead weight.

"You're fuckin' high, aren't you?" he snaps. "Jesus Christ, Ma, what the fuck? That's why you didn't answer my last texts, huh? What happened to you gettin' clean and gettin' things sorted with Weasel?"

His ma hiccups, a high, breathy noise. "I am, I am," she stammers. "I'm gonna, but I just - I gotta. It's just a li'l. I couldn't. My head, it was screaming, and there was bugs in my skin, and I just got a li'l-"

Race lets out a half-hysterical laugh, leaning against the nearest wall and sliding down when he can feel his legs shake under him. "You gotta be fuckin' kidding me," he growls into the phone, cutting across her continued rambling. "My whole fuckin' life's been turned upside down 'cause your damn drugs. I a'most _died_! And all this time you're supposed to be fixin' it, you're actually out gettin' stoned instead."

"No, not like that," Ma says hastily. "Just - it's just a li'l. Just once. 'Cause I gotta, but he's gonna find me, and I'm tryin' just-"

"Oh, go fuck yourself," Race snarls. "I thought you really meant it this time, ya know? But you don't care 'bout nothing but your fucking drugs. So go back to them and leave me the fuck alone. I'm done with you." Ignoring his ma's protests, Race hangs up the call and shuts his phone off before she can call back. He throws his phone across the hall half-heartedly, the plastic case bouncing along the rug, and his head drops back against the wall as he fights to rein in his emotions.

"Race?"

Muffling a yelp, Race flails defensively before he spots the figure in the darkened doorway from the living room. " _Gesù_ , Davey, you scared the shit outta me," Race says, wiping his eyes with his wrist. "What're you doin' sneaking 'round in the dark?"

"In my defense, I can't tell it's dark," Davey replies with a wry smile. He takes a few steps further out of the living room and then pauses uncertainly. It strikes Race all at once that Davey looks different like this, dressed in a tee and sweatpants, barefoot and slightly disheveled. He looks younger and more vulnerable, somehow, less like the briskly efficient man Race is used to during the day. Davey twists his fingers together, and his head cocks curiously. "You okay?"

Race chokes on a shaking breath as the question immediately stirs the burning at the corners of his eyes back to the surface. He doesn't want to cry, doesn't want to waste any more tears on his ma, but when he opens his mouth, his voice instantly cracks. Davey's expression falls, a concerned frown carving lines into his face. "Tony?"

The admission leaves him in a quavering breath. "No."

Davey carefully crosses the rest of the hall, one hand extended to check for obstacles, and Race reaches up to grab his fingers when he's close. Other hand on the wall to guide himself, Davey slips down to kneel next to him on the floor. "Hey, what's the matter?" he asks, squeezing the hand Race hasn't dropped. "The phone call?"

"My ma," Race says, nodding.

"I thought it might've been, but I wasn't sure," Davey says. "I don't speak Italian."

"Was I?" Race asks, startled. He hadn't even noticed that he switched over. He's honestly a little shocked that his ma understood him then, considering how little she speaks it anymore, and she'd definitely been answering in English.

Davey smiles sympathetically. "You do that when you get worked up," he says. "Especially when you're cussing Jack out." That tugs a small laugh out of Race. "You wanna talk about it?"

"She's high again," Race says, voice breaking as the indignation wells up in his chest again. He glares furiously at the phone where it's abandoned on the floor like his mother might feel his anger through it somehow. "She promised she was going to stop, that she was going to get out of all that and make things better. And maybe I'm stupid, but I thought she meant it this time, ya know? I mean, Weasel was seriously gonna kill me. I could'a died, and she was so damn worried then, and I thought maybe that'd finally do it, right? But then she's so high it takes her a whole day to answer my text, and she calls me up middle the night all twitchy and paranoid, and it's like nothin' happened. Nothin' changed. Like she don't give a fuck 'bout me at all, long as she can still get her fuckin' high and I just - I don't-"

Race shatters, the lump of emotion surging up in his throat until he can't speak around it, can't even breathe. He's shaking, full body tremors of rage and pain and hopelessness, and the rush of tears are obstructing his vision, hot on his cheeks. So when Davey opens his arms and tugs gently at his hand, Race collapses into his chest with a broken sob.

Davey wraps his arms around Race, chin nestled in Race's curls, and he rubs a hand up and down Race's spine soothingly. When is the last time someone comforted him like this? It feels so _safe_ , which only makes Race cry harder because how is it fair that he's had to go so long without this feeling? What did he do to deserve a life so fucked up he's had to be the grown-up in his family since he was twelve? Why does it feel like this random stranger he only met through circumstance cares about him more than his own ma?

It takes a long time before Race can calm himself enough to think straight again, and he relaxes his fingers from their stranglehold on the side of Davey's shirt to wipe his eyes. Now that he's not sobbing, he can hear Davey whispering soft reassurances into his scalp. Embarrassment sneaks in, and Race clears his throat awkwardly, grudgingly sitting up and pulling out of Davey's arms. "Sorry," he mumbles, wincing when he spots the damp patch on the shoulder of Davey's tee.

"Hey, never be sorry for something like that," Davey says firmly. His fingers trail up Race's bicep to settle on his shoulder, gripping it comfortingly. "You've been through the wringer. The fact you've made it this long without having a meltdown is incredible. You're a lot stronger than me."

Race huffs a skeptical laugh, drying his face on the collar of his shirt. He slumps against the wall, hugging his knees to his chest, and sighs. "I'd kill for a smoke righ'now." Davey wrinkles his nose and Race hurries to add, "I know I shouldn't an' all. Just - ain't had one in days, and it's got me all itchy. And emotional, 'pparently."

Davey offers a small smile at his attempt at deflection. "Yeah, I think that part might just be life," he says. His hand is still on Race's shoulder, just sitting there unexpectantly, and the warmth of it is oddly comforting. "I'm sorry, Race, you shouldn't have to be dealing with this sort of stuff at your age. No one should have to go through that."

"Ya'd think I'd be used to it by now," Race mutters wearily. "Been this way for years, really. And it's stupid 'cause I wanna hate her, I really do, and part of me does a little. Except then I feel awful 'cause she's my mom, and she's all the family I got and I _can't_ , least not all the way." He blinks back a new wave of tears, clearing his throat.

"That's the unfortunate paradox of loving someone," Davey says with a sad smile. "The ones we're closest to also have the best access to hurt us."

Race cards a hand through his hair, snagging in the sleep-snarls. "She used'ta be the best ma, too," he admits quieter, still not completely able to hide the quiver in his voice. "Wasn't as close to her as I was to my pa, but we was still good, ya know? Remember she was always happy, always singin' and stuff. Was in the church choir and everythin'. Worked in a greenhouse, so she was always bringin' home little flowers and cactuses and stupid stuff like that. Pa always complained the house was more plants than peoples, but he liked it too, had his own little herb garden on the kitchen windowsill, ya know? Then Pa died and she just - _stopped_. Stopped everythin', the singin' and the plants and smilin'. And I get it, kinda, 'cause it messed me up when Pa died too, but it's like she never got any better. And I don't - was I not good enough to make her wanna try?"

"Hey, no, don't think like that," Davey says. "I know it's hard to make sense of when you're in the middle of it, but I promise, this has nothing to do with you. You didn't do anything wrong. This is - your mom has her own issues. Some people just can't cope, and that's the only way they know how to deal, but that's on her. It's not fair that those issues are forced onto you too, but you need to know that none of this is your fault. Okay?" When Race doesn't respond, Davey's hand slides up to settle bracingly across the back of Race's neck. "Okay, Tony?"

"I just wish she'd be my ma again," he says brokenly, and when Davey guides his head back onto his shoulder, Race lets him. He doesn't uncurl from his fetal position, just absorbing the comfort of Davey's shoulder steady under his weight, as he struggles to breathe through the stabbing pain in his chest. "I a'ready lost my pa, but since she started the drugs, sorta feels like I lost her too and - and I don't even know where she's at, and what if there's no one to check on her and she dies and then I got _no one_. And I don't wanna be alone."

Davey immediately drapes an arm across Race's back again, the other still cradling the back of his neck, and pulls him closer. "You're not alone," Davey says resolutely. "I know it's not the same, but no matter what happens, you've got us, okay? I'm not going to let anything happen to you. And neither will Jack. We'll take care of you, okay? You don't have to be alone. We've got you, Tony, _I promise_."

"Why?" Race can't help the question when it slips out, weeks of confusion boiling over. "Why d'you even care? I'm just some kid Spot found on the street."

Davey hums a soft noise, the way he does when his brain's running faster than his mouth and he's trying to get his thoughts in order. "I've heard this quote before, and it always kind of stuck with me," he says finally. "It was something like, 'Friends are the family we get to choose.' None of us here have got the greatest families. Yes, me included," he adds when Race shifts his head to glance sideways at Davey's profile, easily guessing Race's question. "My point is, we're friends. So in a way, that makes you family, and _that's_ why I care."

Letting that settle over him, Race feels his breathing slowly evening out. The family you choose... He still loves his ma, no matter how much he wants to hate her, but that doesn't mean he can't find something more too. And he might've only ended up here by coincidence, but he does care about Davey and Jack and Spot. They've become important to him. "I thought we couldn't be friends 'cause you're too old," Race teases softly.

"Age is just a number, _uh-more_ ," Davey replies with a chuckle, poking him in the side in retaliation for the age jab.

" _A-more-eyh_ ," Race corrects, snorting. "The E at the end makes an A sound. _Amore_."

Huffing, Davey waves a hand in a dismissive gesture. "I told you I don't speak Italian," he says, grinning. "But I mean it, Race. No matter what happens, we'll make sure you're taken care of, okay?"

"M'kay," Race agrees, nodding against Davey's shoulder. Squeezing his eyes shut, Race takes a long, slow breath, and then finally sits up again. He feels calmer but exhausted now, and in the dim ambient glow from the street lamps outside, he can see shadows beneath Davey's eyes. It suddenly occurs to Race that it's ridiculously late. "Oh god, sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up," he says, wincing.

"Hmm? Oh, I was already awake," Davey says. "Although we should probably get you back to bed, huh? C'mon." Davey stands, and after Race retrieves his discarded phone, he offers Davey his arm as a lead.

"Why were you up?" Race asks curiously.

Davey chuffs a laugh. "One of the fun perks of being blind," he admits airily. "Since it's always dark for me, my brain sometimes forgets how to tell time."

"For real?" Race asks, awed. "Didn't know that - _stairs_ \- could happen."

"Neither did I 'til I went blind," Davey says, chuckling. "So even though I can check the clock and know it's one in the morning, my brain is convinced it's still the afternoon and won't go to sleep. I was doing okay for a while, but it's been getting out of whack again."

"That why you always get up the same time every day, even when you're tired?" Race asks. Davey hums an agreement. "Dude, that sucks."

Snorting, Davey nods. "Yeah, kinda," he agrees. "On the plus side, I've been getting a ton of reading done."

Race slows his steps when they reach the doors to the bedrooms and Davey follows the lead, stopping as well. "Well, thanks," Race says, shuffling his feet in embarrassment. "I - just, ya know, listenin' and stuff."

"Of course," Davey says, smiling. "C'mere, kiddo." Using the hand still on Race's arm, Davey drags him into a hug, the sort of bruising hug that crushes the air from your lungs and warms you from the inside out. Race tucks his face into the curve of Davey's neck and takes a deep breath, letting himself drink in one more minute of this security and comfort. When he steps back, Davey lets him go without resistance. "Get some sleep, Racer."

"Yeah, you too," Race says. "Ya know, if you can an' all." Davey grins in reply before turning to his bedroom door. Race goes back into his dark bedroom, shutting the door behind him, and falls heavily onto the bed. Without turning his phone back on, he tosses it on the side table and crawls back under the covers. He can deal with his ma tomorrow. Tonight, he's just going to sleep knowing someone is looking out for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Working title for this chapter: "Race Finally Gets the Mom He Deserves"


	10. Chapter 10

Race isn't surprised by the soft rap on his bedroom door the next morning - he knew someone would wind up coming to check on him eventually when he didn't get out of bed at the usual time - but he is surprised by who.

"Hey Racer, ya up? I'mma come in." Spot waits a long beat, probably giving Race a second to get decent if he's not, and then opens the door slowly. He's dressed, wearing one of his typical sleeveless tees and jeans, and he's carrying a mug of coffee in his free hand. "So you _are_ up," Spot concludes, gaze panning over where Race is sitting in the middle of his bed.

"Yeah, been up a while," says Race, looking across at the other boy curiously. "Why?"

"Was makin' sure ya wasn't dead," Spot says, smirking. "Ya never sleep later 'an Jack."

Race snorts appreciatively. "Didn't sleep much at all, honestly," he admits. He fell asleep again after his mother's late-night call, but it wasn't long before he was woken by nightmares of brass knuckles breaking his bones and knives held to his throat. Shaking off the memories, Race's eyes land on the mug in Spot's hand and his expression brightens. "Ya brought me coffee?"

"Who says this's for you?" Spot responds. "Getcha own coffee, lazy ass." Race sticks his tongue out, prompting a soft huff from Spot. "Youse so mature," he says, but he crosses the room and obligingly holds out the mug.

"Sure, but ya love me anyway," Race counters, beaming, as he takes the mug. The coffee is still warm, heat bleeding through the ceramic, as he takes a sip and hums. "Mmm, you're too good to me, _piccolo punto_."

Spot smacks him around the head and Race yelps, hurrying to steady the coffee so it doesn't splash into his lap. "I looked that up, asshole," the shorter boy says, folding his arms over his chest. "You ain't funny."

Giggling to himself, Race reaches out with his free hand and clears a place on the bed for Spot to sit. "It's cute and ya know it," he argues, shrugging.

"I ain't _cute_ ," says Spot, spitting out the word with his nose wrinkled up in disgust. The expression just manages to make Race laugh more.

"Well if you'd tell me your real name, could call you that," Race points out, but all that earns him is a deadpan stare from the other boy. Race huffs, turning his attention back to the coffee. "Fine, I'mma keep callin' you li'l spot, then. You're so weird."

"That's rich comin' from you," Spot replies, settling down on the patch of blanket Race emptied for him. He glances curiously across the various papers and photos and detritus spread out on the bed and then back up to Race. "Give up dancin' for scrapbookin'?"

"Haha, funny," Race says dryly. He draws his legs up to his chest and cradles the coffee mug on his knees. With his free hand, he reaches out to pick up a nearby picture. It shows his ma, wearing a brightly-colored sundress with a blinding smile on her face. Race is only three in the photo, chubby and gap-toothed and too-long blonde curls hanging into his eyes, with his arms around his mother's neck. The picture highlights just how much Race looks like his ma, or at least how much he looks like how she _used_ to look. "Sometimes I hate rememberin' we were happy before," he says quietly. "Think maybe it wouldn't suck so bad if I didn't have stuff like this," he holds up the photo, "like it wouldn't feel so bad if we were always fucked up, ya know?"

Spot considers him thoughtfully for a minute, picking at his knuckles. "It don't help," he says, tone low but resolute. Race glances across at him questioningly. "When it always sucks," Spot elaborates, "doesn't make it suck less. Still sucks."

Race exhales heavily and lets the photo drift back to the blankets. He takes a long drink of the coffee, letting it warm him from the inside. "Parents suck."

"Fo'sure," Spot agrees. He folds his legs in front of him and reaches over to pick up a pair of tiny black ballet slippers, the silk faded to gray in spots and holes worn into the toes. There's a tiny little 'ACH' stitched in white thread on one of the ribbons. "Cute."

"Shaddup," says Race, chuckling, and his ears go pink as he watches Spot turn his very first pair of ballet slippers over in his hands.

"Nah, I mean it," Spot says, glancing up to shoot a quick look at him. "It's cute ya keep this stuff. I ain't got nothin' like this from when I was li'l."

Smirking, Race glances at Spot over the lip of the mug. "Didn't know ya ever was li'l," he teases. "Thought ya just sprouted outta the ground all grown and grumpy."

Spot rolls his eyes, tossing the shoes back onto the bed and flipping him off idly. His gaze slides to the tarnished silver lighter by Race's toes and he tips his head to read the inscription. "Who's GB?"

"My pa," Race answers. "Giuseppe Bianchi."

Spot's brow furrows. "Thought youse name is Higgins?"

"It is," Race agrees, smirking. He sets the coffee on the side table next to the emptied shoebox and picks up the lighter, turning it over in his fingers. "Pa changed his name when he moved here. Figured folks was gonna have too much trouble with the Italian, so he picked one that would be more English, ya know? Said he got Higgins from a guy on this old detective show he loved."

"So youse name would'a been-"

"Antonio Cristiano Bianchi," Race says with a laugh. "Yeah."

Spot snorts under his breath. "That's _so_ fuckin' Italian."

"Ya don't say," Race says sarcastically. "Go figure the Italian kid got an Italian name." He snags up one of the photos with his free hand, showing his father working in the kitchen. There's an unlit cigarette tucked behind one ear, the place he always kept it when his hands were busy. His forearms are coated in flour where he's methodically working on a bowl of bread dough. Race, a wide-eyed eight-year-old in this one, is leaning on his elbows on the countertop and watching curiously. "That's my pa."

Taking the picture, Spot looks down at it thoughtfully. His lips quirk up at one side. "He the one taught ya to cook?" he guesses.

Race nods, flicking the lighter open and shut in his other hand distractedly. "Always said ya ain't a proper _Italiano_ if ya don't know your way 'round a kitchen. Was teachin' me to cook 'fore I could walk." He snaps the lighter shut again. "Used to say was no problem in the world can't be baked away in the oven."

A long moment hangs between them, Spot's eyes casting over Race with that quiet intensity of his, and then he nods decisively. "Okay."

"Okay?" Race echoes in confusion.

"Let's see what we can bake away," says Spot. When Race meets his gaze, Spot's lips slant into a small smile and his dark eyes spark playfully. Race finds himself mirroring the smile without meaning to, caught up in the dare in Spot's gaze, and he nods. Carefully gathering all of his things back into the shoebox, Race scoops up the coffee mug and follows Spot out of his room.

The kitchen is empty when they get down there and Race immediately starts opening cupboards. Still dressed in his pajamas, Race pulls out ingredients and lays them out on the countertop. Spot stands at the end of the counter, waiting expectantly, and Race grins at him. "Well c'mon then, _mio piccolo punto_ , getcha ass ova here. I ain't gonna do all the work."

It becomes clear very quickly that Spot has no idea what he's doing in a kitchen. He's entirely dumbfounded by anything more complicated than the basics, but he's stubborn and won't ask for instructions. Race has to jump in several times to stop him from completely ruining their pastries, laughing himself silly at the frustrated scowls Spot sends at the bowl. "Stop glarin'. Ain't the cream's fault ya can't cook," Race jokes.

"Maybe if I had a betta teacher," Spot shoots back, smirking, and ducks out of the way when Race swipes at him with a mixing spoon. It spatters flour across his face and Spot yelps. "Hey, watch it!"

" _Awh_ , now you're extra spotty!" says Race, doubling over laughing.

"Youse an idiot," Spot grumbles but there's a shadow of a smile at the corner of his mouth. He grabs a dishrag from the sink and wipes off his face.

When he comes back to the counter, there's still a speck of white on his cheek and Race grins. "Ya missed a spot," he says, chuckling, and he reaches out to brush the white off Spot's skin. As he does, his gaze snags on Spot's cheekbone and he freezes. "Wait, what the hell?"

"Jesus, how much flour did ya flick at me?" Spot asks exasperatedly, sweeping a hand down his face.

"No, not that," Race says. He grabs Spot by the chin and drags his thumb across the other boy's cheekbone. There, below his eye, two black dots stand out against his skin. "No way, I know ya had three before. Where'd it go?"

Spot jerks his chin free, raising an eyebrow skeptically. "Don't be crazy," he says, smirking. He's playing at casual and dismissive, but Race can recognize the defensiveness in it as he folds his arms and shrugs.

"No, there were _three_ ," Race says insistently. "I know it. Were you drawin' 'em on or somethin'?" He checks his thumb to make sure there's no sign of black on the skin.

"What, ya think I go puttin' on makeup?" Spot asks with a snort. "Think I'm gonna go makin' this look worse?"

Race flinches at the bitter contempt in Spot's voice when the shorter boy gestures jerkily to his face. It's nothing new, Race has known from the start that Spot is self-conscious about the scars, but it stings that Spot thinks _Race_ would think that way about him. Licking his lips, Race's brow furrows. "That ain't what I said," he counters. "But I know ya had three before and now ya only got two. How'd it go away?"

"Toldja before and ya didn't believe me," Spot replies with a wry smirk. "Same way I got all'a this."

"What? You mean magic?" Race asks, eyebrows raised.

"Used'ta have twelve dots," the shorter boy says. "Now I gots two."

Race considers him, reading the tension in every line of Spot's body. Race doesn't believe in magic. He _doesn't_. But he also _knows_ that Spot used to have three dots under his eye and now he's only got two. It's not covered up by makeup, because that would've come off on Race's thumb. So either these two are real and the others were drawn on before, or...

"Okay," Race says, nodding. Spot frowns in confusion. "Okay, I believe ya. You said they're magic, and I believe it."

Spot's lips quirk. "No, ya don't."

"Not completely," Race admits with a chuckle. "But I'm sorta runnin' out of other ideas too." He shrugs, turning his focus back to the cream filling he rescued from Spot's glares. "Okay, can't trust ya with this, clearly. Can ya at least mix that dough there? S'just stirrin', ya can't mess that up too bad."

Rolling his eyes, Spot takes over the mixing as Race starts whipping the cream. It's still lumpy because Spot apparently doesn't understand the concept of adding ingredients _gradually_ , but it's nothing that can't be salvaged. They work in companionable quiet, the only interruptions in the form of Race directing Spot through finishing the dough.

Race chases Spot out of the way when he starts frying because he doesn't trust Spot not to set the kitchen on fire. Instead, he relegates Spot to cutting out circles of dough and wrapping them into tubes for Race to fry. They get a steady rhythm going and most of the cannoli tubes come out passable if a bit misshapen. Once they've got them all laid out to dry and cool enough for the filling, Race leans against the countertop next to Spot and grins.

"Thanks, Spotty," he says, nudging his elbow against Spot's.

"Fa' what?" Spot asks.

Race chuckles, scooping up a handful of the little chocolate chips left over from the cream filling. "I know ya just did this to distract me," he says. "Figure gettin' bossed 'round in the kitchen by me ain't your idea of a good time."

"Wasn't so bad," says Spot, shrugging. He plucks a chocolate chip from Race's hand and pops it in his mouth. "You ain't the worst ta' hang out with."

Race snorts. "You're just saying that 'cause you're a hermit and don't got any better options," he says dryly.

"Pro'lly," Spot agrees with a shallow grin.

"Charmer, you are," Race says, rolling his eyes. Then his expression softens. "But really, ya know, thanks. This helped. Sorta forgot how much I loved cooking 'fore I came here, ya know? Didn't do much of it at home, was mostly whatever I could throw together cheap."

"Well, youse been a nightmare in disguise for us," Spot says. "Saved us all from Jack's cookin' and now we're gettin' fat." Laughing, Race jabs him with an elbow again. "But ya know, if you change your mind 'bout the dancin' thing, I'd totally keep ya on as a cook."

"Good to know," says Race, grinning. "And here my school counselors kept sayin' a kid like me had limited career opportunities."

"Eh, fuck 'em," Spot says offhand. "What'a they know?" He grabs another couple chocolate chips from Race's palm. "Gonna suck when ya leave, though."

The sentiment, even said flippantly like that, warms Race's chest. "Thought you were gettin' sick of me," he jokes. Spot shoots him a flat look and Race chuckles. "Still got weeks anyway. Audition ain't 'til end of August. And even if I do make it, takes weeks of rehearsing 'fore the group heads out on tour. You'll get outta here 'fore I do. You're eighteen in September, ain'tcha?"

Spot hums. "Still dunno what I'm gonna do then," he admits. "Get out from under the old man's thumb, I guess, but otha than that? Dunno."

"What about school?" Race asks curiously. Spot gives him a questioning look. "I mean, you're smart. Could always go to college or something."

"Lookin' like this?" Spot counters skeptically.

Race scoffs. "There's online school, if you're gonna be a diva 'bout it," he drawls pointedly. Spot snorts. "I mean it, Spotty. You're real smart. College'd be no problem for you if ya tried it."

Spot folds his arms over his chest, one of those gestures that's supposed to look intimidating but that Race has come to recognize means he's getting defensive and skittish. So when the shorter boy shrugs and mutters a noncommittal, "Maybe," Race grudgingly lets it drop. Pushing will just end in Spot disappearing up into his room for a couple hours, and Race is having too good a time to ruin it just 'cause he knows he's right.

"These should be cool 'nough," Race says, nodding toward the pastries. "Help me fill 'em?"

They don't have proper icing bags in the apartment but that doesn't stop Race; he digs out a pair of Ziploc bags and cuts a corner off them, spooning the ricotta-based cream into the bags and passing one to Spot. The process is messy, the pastries still a little too warm, so the filling melts a little and drips everywhere. The makeshift bags are clumsy and definitely not designed to handle the mini chocolate chips, but they just laugh and lick the cream off their fingers and keep working.

They're about halfway through when they hear Jack's sputtering old car roll into the downstairs garage, and he appears in the kitchen doorway a few minutes later with an armload of grocery bags. "Good God, what the hell happened in here?" he asks, eyes wide as he takes in the disaster of a kitchen. "Freakin' teenagers. I leave ya alone for an hour and ya have a food fight?"

"Spot helped me make cannolis," Race announces proudly, offering out the one he just finished.

Jack casts a dubious glance between the two teens. "You let Spot cook?" He yelps and ducks when Spot flicks cream filling at him. "Oh, touchy, are we?" Jack teases. He sets down the groceries to accept the pastry from Race and he bites into it eagerly. "Mm, not bad, boys."

"My pa's recipe," Race says, moving on to the next cannoli, but he doesn't miss the way Jack's smile turns a bit softer at the edges with the admission. "'Cept Pa always put a li'l wine in the batter, but we don't got any."

"Well, messy or not," Jack says, licking off a bit of cream that's threatening to fall out of the back of his pastry, "think you guys done old man Higgins proud with these." The compliment shouldn't mean as much as it does - Jack never even met Race's pa, so how would he know? - but it still sends a warm thrill down Race's spine. "But you two's cleanin' all this up when you're done," Jack adds, gesturing around at the dishes. "I ain't your maid."

"You sorta are," Spot counters with a grin. "That's kinda your job."

"A job _you_ keep tryna fire me from," Jack reminds him cheekily. "So for tonight, consider me off duty. Your mess, you clean." Spot grumbles irritably but there's no real fire behind it as he goes back to filling the few remaining cannolis. "Oh, before I forget," Jack says, pushing up off where he was leaning on the counter, "I was meanin' to talk to you 'bout something, Racer."

"What'd I do?" Race asks guiltily.

Jack laughs. "I dunno, what'd you do this time?" he asks in reply. He rummages through the grocery bags until he seems to find the one he's looking for, and he comes back over. "Okay, now don't tell Dave I'm doin' this," Jack says, tone more serious, "but I gotcha this." And he holds up a pack of cigarettes.

"Jack!" Spot objects angrily, even as Race's heart leaps.

"Now wait a sec, hear me out," Jack says, giving them both a deliberate look as he holds up his other hand placatingly. "This comes with strings attached, okay? So here's the rules, kiddo. This pack? This's it. Only one ya get. And I wouldn'a gotcha this one at all if I didn't know from 'sperience how much quittin' cold turkey sucks."

"Quittin'?" Race echoes, frowning in confusion.

Jack nods. "That's the strings," he says. From the grocery sack, he produces two little boxes: one labeled nicotine patches, another nicotine gum. "I'm only givin' you the smokes on the agreement that you give quittin' a try. I know how much it blows," he says, speaking over Race's protest, "but it's good for ya. And if you're serious 'bout your dancing, you know it too. So whaddya say?"

Race glances from Jack to the boxes on the countertop. It's not that he's never thought about it. He's needed to quit for a long time, he knows that; he's even admitted it to them before. He's been putting it off, especially with everything that's happened with his ma, but maybe now's the best time to try. At least, for now, he's got people to keep him accountable.

And - he thinks, as he looks between Jack and Spot - he's got people that care enough to make him try.

So Race grabs the box of nicotine gum from the counter and pries it open. He pops a piece from the foil and tosses it in his mouth, grinning daringly at the other two. Jack beams in reply, reaching out and ruffling Race's hair. "Good choice, pal," he says approvingly, laughing when Race bats him away indignantly. Spot doesn't say anything, but there's something almost proud about his smile when he turns back to the pastries.

"Didn't know ya used to smoke," Race says to Jack, raising an eyebrow.

Jack hums an agreement, moving to start putting away groceries. "Started when I was 'bout your age," he says. "Some'a the kids I hung with back then did, so I did too. Thought it made us look cool."

Spot scoffs loudly. "You ain't never been cool in your life, old man," he jibes.

Jack retaliates by throwing a loaf of bread at him; it falls onto the cannolis Spot's been working on, squishing them, and he squawks in protest. The ensuing tussle - which is only ended by Davey emerging from his room several minutes later to find out what all the noise is - results in all three of them covered in cream filling and laughing so hard none of them can summon the breath to explain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super low-key Magnum PI reference? Yes, yes I did.


	11. Chapter 11

With Spot's new inclusion in their day-to-day life, Race very quickly finds that he's spending nearly all of his time with the other boy. A lot of that is merely the two of them existing in the same space - after all, the apartment is hardly a sprawling manor, and there are only so many places to be.

So Spot is there when Race finally gets the nerve to turn his phone back on two days later and deal with his ma. He follows Race up to the roof after and doesn't judge him for the cigarette, simply sitting and letting Race vent about his frustrations and the new tentative truce he's reached with his mother. When the cigarette has burnt to the filter, Spot drags him back into the house for a Lord of the Rings marathon to take his mind off it.

Race gets shoved bodily off the sofa for calling Spot a hobbit, and he laughs so hard he cries - and if a couple of the tears are not from laughter, Spot doesn't comment.

Between his dance rehearsals and meals and lessons with Davey, Race takes to trailing Spot around the apartment for company. He curls up in the armchair when Spot is watching movies, providing color commentary over the top of the films that Spot pretends to be annoyed with for five minutes before joining. When Spot is preoccupied on his computer - with the secret  _ whatever _ he still won't let anyone see - in his room, Race sprawls lazily on the other boy's bed to listen to music and play games on his phone.

It's a natural, comfortable balance, the way they can function around each other without interrupting the other's schedule. Spot doesn't seem to mind his presence, and if he needs time to himself, he just says it. Meanwhile, having someone around settles Race's nerves, knowing that if he gets restless and needs to talk to someone to break the quiet, Spot is content to let him ramble about whatever he wants.

At the same time, Race's presence seems to help Spot unwind from the constant ball of tension and paranoia he used to be. Race can't help that he's always been a tactile sort of person and a lifetime in the dance studio has eroded away all sense of personal space. It's reflex to poke and prod at people, elbow them to get attention or sling an arm around their shoulders. Race tries to be conscious of the fact that Spot doesn't like being touched and he feels bad when Spot flinches away from contact.

Except that the more time they spend together, the less Spot flinches. He still jumps if he doesn't see it coming, but he seems to get used to the prodding elbows and taps on shoulders. When Race flops down onto the sofa and leans against Spot's side, the shorter boy grumbles but doesn't push him off. Spot even starts to initiate contact more; he'll grab Race's wrist to get his attention, and the usual gap of space when they sit next to each other starts to shrink. He even lets the others closer, giving Davey his arm as a lead and grudgingly allowing the arm Jack drapes over his shoulders playfully.

So in that way, wrapped up in the endless cycle of dance and tutoring, the rest of July passes in a blur.

The first weekend in August, Race gets Spot to record a video of his audition piece on his phone. "Thanks," he says when he drops down to sit next to Spot at the end, breathing heavily. Spot hands his phone back and Race grins appreciatively. "Wanna see what Specs says, so if something looks dumb, I still got time to fix it before the audition."

"Don't trust my opinion no more?" Spot asks teasingly.

"Never trusted your opinion in the first place," Race responds with a laugh. "You think it's funny when I land on my ass."

Spot shrugs. "'Cause it is."

Race rolls his eyes, preoccupied with attaching the video to a text to Specs. "Yeah, that'd be why I wanna get a second opinion from someone who knows what the fuck they're talkin' about," he says. "But don't worry, if I need advice on bein' a grump, I'll check with you first."

"Just like I'll check with ya if I wanna know how to be a bitch," Spot replies without missing a beat. Race snorts and flips him off lazily, checking his phone to make sure the video is sending. "Ya need me for anythin' else?"

"Hmm? No, I'm good," Race says and glances over curiously. "Why?"

Spot picks up his leather jacket from where it's on the floor behind him. "'Cause I'mma sneak out for a ride," he explains, standing up and dusting off his jeans.

It's the first time Spot's left one of his rehearsals before the end and Race tries not to let his surprise show on his face. "Gonna go find more dancers in distress to rescue?" he jokes to cover, smirking.

Lips slanting, Spot rolls his eyes. "Yeah, no thanks, the one's enough," he says, but there's a touch of fondness beneath the sarcasm. "Nah, just ain't been out in a while, and gettin' outta the house a bit helps me think." His smile turns teasing. "I'd ask if ya wanna come, but I know youse scared of the bike."

"Am not," Race counters, scowling.

"Really? 'Cause ya sure seemed it last time," Spot says, eyebrow raised in challenge. "Shakin' like a leaf. Ya almost busted my ribs holdin' on so tight."

Race scoffs. "Yeah that was more to do with the fact I'd just 'bout got my throat cut right before," he reminds the other boy flatly. "And then some random weirdo on a motorcycle showed up outta nowhere, and kinda-sorta kidnapped me. Was more freaked by that than the bike." Spot snorts, his expression clearly humoring. "Hey Spot," Race says before the other boy can turn for the door, a question that's been lingering at the back of his mind for weeks surging to the front again. "Why  _ did _ you save me? Like, how did you even know to be there?"

Spot pauses in the act of pulling on his jacket, one arm in a sleeve, and frowns thoughtfully. "Was just ridin' by," he admits, shrugging. "Recognized Weasel's car. Figured him comin' into Brooklyn meant trouble, so I wheeled back 'round ta' check. Then I saw ya there, and he had the knife and - just figured I should do somethin', ya know?"

"Sure, I guess, yeah," Race says, nodding distractedly. "You recognized his car?"

Looking distinctly uncomfortable now, Spot shrugs again. "Sure. Known folks got on his bad side before, so I'd seen it. 'Sides, pretty sure he's the only fella stupid 'nough to drive somethin' that ugly ass color."

Race laughs even as he continues to survey Spot thoughtfully. The other boy fidgets, busying himself with tugging his jacket the rest of the way on. "Well, I mean, I guess I'm damn lucky he does," Race says finally. "And lucky you were there and all. I said thanks, right?"

"A couple times now," Spot agrees with a smirk. "Well, maybe I'll take ya next time then if you ain't scared. Don't bust an ankle while I ain't here to watch."

"Asshole," Race shoots at his back as Spot chuckles and ducks out into the stairwell. Shaking his head, Race checks his phone to make sure the video sent and then turns his music back on. The roar of the motorcycle's engine from below is loud, and Race feels it vibrating in the hardwood until the sound disappears out onto the street. He goes back to polishing the choreography as he thinks about what Spot said.

Spot somehow managed to answer one question and spark a dozen new ones. How does Spot know Weasel? And know him well enough to have seen and recognized his car? And know that Brooklyn is outta the Weasel's turf? All of it just lends more credence to Race's current running theory that Spot was in a gang before whatever happened to him. It makes sense, for the most part; it would explain both Spot's behavior and why he would be familiar with local gang leaders. And if Spot's dad is in a gang too, it'd make sense that Spot was just sort of raised in that kind of culture.

Of course, it doesn't really explain how their family is so loaded. Weasel isn't hurting for money, sure, but as far as Race knows, he's not the kinda guy who has multiple houses and hired help. Not that Race is an expert on the average salary of New York crime lords or anything. Maybe Spot's dad's an accountant for the gangs or something, one of those white-collar guys who help them sneak their money around and launder it through businesses so the cops can't find it. Spot'd probably be good at that with how smart he is.

Race yelps as he loses his balance and falls out of his pirouette early, his heel hitting the ground and bringing him to a stuttered stop. Huffing, Race pushes his hair back off his forehead and regathers himself. This is stupid. He should be focused on his routine, not distracting himself by making up ridiculous theories about who Spot really is. It's not like it even matters, anyway; Race doesn't really care, he's mostly just curious. But it's throwing him off his game, and he can't afford that this close to his audition.

Shaking his head, Race grabs a quick drink and resets his music. Time to knuckle down and focus.

He's been at it an hour when his music gets interrupted by his ringtone, and he darts over to check. When he sees Specs' name on the caller ID, Race grins and swipes to accept it. "Didja get it?" he asks in lieu of a greeting. 

"Dude, it's fuckin' awesome," Specs responds eagerly. "You for real wrote the whole thing yourself?"

"Nah, my witness protection program conveniently comes with a choreographer," Race says with a laugh.

"Smart ass," Specs says, chuckling. "Really though, it's awesome. And you weren't kidding when you said you can do a 540! You made it look so freakin' easy. You're totally gonna kill this audition."

Race grins and sits down against the wall. "You should audition with me," he says, cradling the phone between his shoulder and ear, so his hands are free to massage his ankles. "You could totally make it, and it'd be so sweet to do this together."

Specs laughs. "Nah, I don't think I'm ready for the big leagues yet," he says unconcernedly. "Besides, being out on the road all year? That's not my jam. I'd miss the folks and Romeo, and school and all that. Actually, a scout from Julliard came to the showcase last month, I talked to him a bit. I've been thinking maybe I'll do that. Or ya know, if I can't get into Julliard, there's always programs at like NYU and stuff too." 

"Ooh, look at you, gettin' fancy and goin' to college," Race teases even though he's beaming. Specs scoffs on the other end of the line. "That's so cool, though. You've got real dance range, all those other classes you've taken. You would kill it at a place like Julliard. How's Romes?"

"Same old," Specs says fondly. "Being a total drama queen about being alone forever, you know how he is. He's been working that summer job I told you 'bout, and he's convinced this other lifeguard is his soulmate even though she's got no idea he exists."

Race grins, rolling his eyes. "Sounds about right," he says. "Please tell me her name is Juliet, that's the only way this could get better."

"Amber," Specs says in a tone of disappointment. "Lame, right?" After their laughter trails off, Specs clears his throat. "Miss having you in classes, man," he says. "It's so weird, you not being here."

"Miss you too, Specsy," Race says. "Think this is the longest I've not seen you since we met. Which sorta makes us sound like weird co-dependents or somethin' now that I say it out loud." Specs breaks out in a fit of giggles on the other end. "But seriously, it sucks not being able to go to classes and see everyone."

"This whole thing's so fucked up," Specs says for the millionth time since the start of the summer. It's a sentiment he's repeated every time they've talked since Race first filled him in on what had happened. "Betcha can't wait 'til the audition's over so you can get outta there, huh?"

Race shrugs, frowning. "I dunno," he admits thoughtfully. "I mean, yeah, because I'm going seriously stir-crazy. I've only been outside the house like three times since I got here, and it was just for quick little trips. I'm so ready to get outta New York and not have to worry if I'm gonna get shanked in some alley or something. But this place's not so bad, really."

"Really? Last time I talked to you, you couldn't wait to get out," Specs says. "The house of freaks growing on you?"

"Kinda," Race says with a laugh. "Like, they're all weird, for sure. But they're really nice too. Even the grumpy hermit kid, he's actually kind of awesome, and he's fun to hang out with. And Davey's been tutoring me so I can go test out of sophomore year, so I won't have to do it again. Oh, and they've even got me givin' up smoking," he adds, scratching distractedly at the adhesive patch stuck on his bicep. "Got me the patches and gums and everything. Haven't had a smoke in two weeks."

"For real?" Specs asks in surprise. "Dude, way to go! That's awesome. I didn't think you'd ever give it up."

Race chuckles. "Me neither," he confesses. "And part of me doesn't wanna, still, but at the same time, I really wanna get this audition, and I know the smoking hasn't gotten in the way yet, but if I kept goin', it would someday."

"Well, I'm proud of you, man," Specs says. "Shit, sounds like that place has actually kinda been good for you. And I mean, busting out choreography like you showed me, that's just insane. Way better than the piece you wrote for that showcase last year. You so got this."

"Thanks," Race says, grinning in satisfaction. "But I gotta make it perfect. Got any tips?" 

They switch to talking shop, Specs offering suggestions on technique and choreography with occasional pauses to rewatch the video to check. It's easy to get lost in the back-and-forth, and Race barely notices the sound of the motorcycle thundering back into the garage. Spot doesn't come to the studio, apparently heading straight upstairs, and Race is too preoccupied with trading ideas with Specs to be bothered.

It's only the warning beep of his phone's battery dying that finally makes Race realize how late it's gotten and he winces at the time. "Oh shit, my phone's gonna die," he says. "Should pro'lly letcha go."

"Yeah, I gotta crash anyway," Specs says. "Dad has me helping out at the office before rehearsals, so I've gotta be up early."

"Thanks again for the help," Race says. "Text me if ya think of anything else?"

"For sure," Specs agrees. "And keep me posted. Can't wait to hear how the audition goes." They both say quick farewells and Race hangs up. It's already past midnight, and he knows he's not going to get any more work done tonight, so Race gathers up his things and flicks the lights off. He didn't accomplish a lot tonight, but it felt good to talk to Specs again, and he's smiling as he makes his way up the stairs toward his room.

There's a light on in Jack's art studio, the door cracked just enough to let out a slender spear of yellow onto the carpet, and Race can hear voices from the landing. He's about to keep climbing up to his floor when he's stopped by the sound of his name. "Well, what about Race?" Jack asks idly.

Race frowns curiously, taking a few steps down the hall to hear better. "What 'bout him?" responds a low, ragged timbre; Spot.

Jack snorts. "Oh c'mon, kid, Davey's blind and even  _ he _ can see it," he says. "Eight months you're holed up in that room, then Racer shows up, and now ya follow him 'round like a puppy. It's cute."

"Don't go readin' into it," Spot says flatly. "S'just nice to have someone to talk to."

"And what am I; chopped liver?" Jack asks in mock offense.

"And old," Spot replies. There's an indignant noise, and Spot chuckles as something small clatters against the wall. "It's okay, youse agin' slow 'nough ya don't look like a prune yet."

"Oh shaddup, ya brat," Jack says, but he's laughing too. "Dunno why I put up with you."

Spot scoffs. "'Cause youse gettin' paid to." He lets out a heavy breath, and the room quiets for a second. "Jack? How'd ya - I mean, didja - Nah, never mind, ain't important."

"Hey, what's the matter?" Jack asks, and his tone has shifted into something softer. "C'mon, I know I'm just a glorified babysitter, but ya-"

"Don't be stupid," Spot interrupts. "Youse my friend." It's said in that same no-nonsense tone Spot uses for everything, but there's no missing the way it slants up ever-so-slightly at the end, turning it into an uncertain question.

"Fo'sure?" Jack asks, and he sounds distinctly pleased. Whatever answer Spot gives must be silent because Jack clears his throat and continues, "A'right, then as your friend, you know you can talk to me if there's somethin' bugging you, right?" Spot hums noncommittally. "This 'bout Race?"

"Nah, not really," Spot says. There's the rough sound of skin-on-skin that Race recognizes, Spot dragging a hand back over his skull the way he does when he's getting worked up. "Just - dunno, confused, I guess? About ev'rythin'. Wasn't s'posed to be like this."

Jack huffs a laugh. "Yeah, life has a funny way of doing that to ya," he agrees. "I mean, look at me. Two years ago, I'm on the fast-track to making detective. Now I can't get hired 'cept by folks like your old man. Finally find someone I  _ wanna _ paint things for, and he's blind." He scoffs. "Universe got a shitty sense of humor like that."

"And that's comin' from someone with a shit sense of humor ta' begin with."

"You're turnin' into a real smart mouth, you know that?" Jack says wryly. "Racer's been a bad influence on ya. Think I a'most preferred when you were just sittin' in corners and scowlin' like a gargoyle." Race doesn't hear Spot's response, but it makes Jack laugh. "Oh c'mon, you know I'm kiddin'. Honestly, it's nice to find out there's a personality in there somewhere. And nice to see ya get a chance to just kinda be a kid, even if that kid  _ is _ an obnoxious teenager. Ya know, makin' friends and watchin' movies and stuff like that. I know ya ain't had much of that."

"The old man kept me busy, never had time for that sorta shit," Spot says, letting out a heavy breath.

"And now ya got nothin'  _ but _ time," Jack responds with a chuckle that sounds distinctly sad.

"Not a ton anymore," Spot says, so quietly Race almost misses it. "Just a coupl'a weeks left and you all can getcha lives back."

There's the soft rattle of something being set down. "Hey, I ain't just bailing on ya. You know that, right?" Jack says reassuringly. "We're in this together. Don't matter if you're eighteen. Don't matter what your old man says. You're always welcome to crash with me 'til you figure out what ya wanna do with yourself. My apartment ain't as nice as this place, but we'll make it work. That's what  _ friends _ do." 

"Yeah?" Spot asks, and there's the faintest tremor beneath his voice. He takes a deep, shaky breath. "Ya know, I spent so long just wantin' this year ta' be over so I could escape. But now it's a'most here and - I don't wanna go."

"Hey, hey," Jack says, his tone immediately switching to soothing. "C'mere, kid, I gotcha. You're okay, I gotcha. I'mma make sure you're taken care of, okay? You let me worry 'bout that. C'mere." Race hears quiet footsteps and then a damp, tremulous breath that sounds a little too much like a sob. Wincing, Race turns back toward the stairs. This is personal, he shouldn't be listening to this. He makes it two steps when-

"I  _ can't _ go back, Jack," Spot says thickly. "Can't go back ta' that life, and my dad - he's gonna kill me."

Jack clicks his tongue. "He ain't layin' a hand on ya, I promise," he says, fierce and resolute. "You don't ever gotta see him again if you don't wanna. I'mma make sure of that."

There's a faint sniffle and then, "I can't - I mean, he a'ways-" Spot breaks off with a huff and clears his throat. "I think I - dunno, maybe I should ask Dave 'stead."

"Can ask me anythin', kid," Jack says. "What's'a matter?"

Spot clears his throat again. "You - ya like girls  _ and _ guys, right? That's what Race said. But - how'd ya know it? That you ain't just straight, I mean?"

Eyes wide, Race tiptoes hastily to the stairs before he can hear Jack's response. Yeah, that's  _ definitely _ not a conversation he should be listening to, curiosity be damned. Race slips into his room and collapses on his bed, mind churning. He doesn't even know where to start with what he overheard.

Did Jack use to be a cop? Is Spot really afraid his dad is going to kill him? What did Spot mean that he doesn't have a lot of time left?

Does Spot  _ like _ him?

Race shakes his head. It doesn't really matter, either way. At the end of the summer, Race is going to kill his audition, and then he'll be out of New York, touring the country. There's no point in considering a relationship with that on the horizon. Besides, Race doesn't like Spot that way anyway, right? He barely even knows the guy, really; he doesn't even know his real name.

Except, Race  _ does _ know Spot. He knows Spot's really smart but self-conscious about it. He knows Spot loves rock music, can't cook worth a shit, and he's allergic to peanuts. He's shy and anxious, but he's also determined and passionate about things and considerate and loyal and stubborn. He's a little bit of a nerd and works out kinda obsessively because it helps him de-stress. And even though he clearly came from a shit family, he still somehow learned to be aware of people's feelings and take care of them and have faith that good things will happen for them.

Sure, Race might not know Spot's real name, but that didn't stop him from becoming Race's friend in a matter of a few short weeks. Maybe even his best friend, because there are things Race's talked about to Spot that he's never told Specs in the nine years they've known each other. They probably never would've become friends outside of here, but Race is glad they've met. He knows that when he leaves, he's going to miss having Spot with him all the time, that quiet, steady presence that grounds him when his head is buzzing with energy and anxiety. The dry sarcasm and playful teasing, and the unwavering intensity of those dark green eyes.

So yeah, maybe Race does know Spot. Maybe he even likes him a little. It doesn't really matter because Race is leaving and Spot's got more than enough on his plate right now, but the thought still manages to put a smile on Race's lips as he rolls over and goes to sleep. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never been to New York before, so if there's anything horrifically inaccurate in this chapter, please chalk it up to artistic license and author hand-waving. Cheers!  
> The latter half of this chapter is one of the first scenes I drafted in this story, so I'm excited to finally share it with you guys.

Race chews on his lip, and his thumb hovers uncertainly over the search button on his phone's browser. As curious as he is, he also knows that once he knows, he can't _un_ know it. Does he really want to know? Or, more importantly, will knowing change anything?

It's really that question that finally motivates Race to press the search key. Of course it won't change anything. Race has had his suspicions for weeks now and having them confirmed won't change what he already knows for himself.

The phone screen blinks as the wifi pulls up the search results screen. First, the search bar loads, the text box filled with the vague curiosity Race typed out: "Jack Kelly NYPD officer." After a second, a series of responses pop up to fill the rest of the screen. There at the top is a headline from a local news site that causes a knot in Race's stomach.

_NYPD Officer Suspended Following Allegations of Criminal Ties_

It's right along the lines of what he was expecting to find, so it doesn't really shock him or anything, the discovery oddly hollow. Race swallows hard as he clicks on the link. Any lingering doubts he has are dashed by the photo attached to the article. The officer in the picture is a little younger, haircut a little shorter, but it's definitely Jack wearing the distinct NYPD uniform.

Curious, Race skims the article. It's reasonably vague, but from what he can tell, an investigation found that Jack, who was a patrol officer with the Manhattan 12th precinct at the time, had been accused of making deals under the table with an unnamed local crime boss. There is a quote from his sergeant, saying that Jack'd had a perfect record with the department before this, how he served on the community outreach team and did frequent visits to local schools, and how it was a shame to see a good officer beloved by the neighborhood fall into trouble.

Something Spot told him ages ago comes back to Race at that moment. _"Jack got tangled up in some legal stuff, money'll help him sort that out."_ Is this the legal trouble Spot was talking about? Was this why Jack said people like Spot's dad - who Jack himself has said is involved in some dirty stuff - are the only ones who will hire him anymore?

It's precisely the sort of story Race was expecting when he opened the browser search, and he finds that instead of surprise, he's just sad. The Jack that he knows is a good person. He's silly and caring and attentive. He's a hopeless romantic who is so obviously in love with Davey, but he doesn't pursue it because he respects Davey's choices. He's a supportive big brother figure who genuinely cares about Spot, even though that was never part of his job. And even though he won't get anything from it, Jack takes care of Race and helps him and pushes him to be better just because it's the right thing to do.

"You stuck again?"

Race startles and glances up from his phone. Turned away from his laptop, Spot is watching Race with a blend of amusement and concern. "You got that look again," the shorter boy elaborates at Race's questioning expression. "The one ya get when youse stuck on a level of Candy Crush or whatever. Youse glarin' at your phone like it said somethin' mean to ya."

Snorting, Race shakes his head. "Nah, was just readin' something," he says with a dismissive shrug. He swipes a hand over the screen, closing out the browser. Whatever mistakes Jack's made in the past, Race doesn't care. People can do bad things but still be good people. Just like how Race knows Spot, regardless of how little he actually knows about him, Race knows Jack too, and he knows that Jack is a good person.

At his desk, Spot raises an eyebrow and smirks. "Youse doin' those stupid Buzzfeed quizzes again, ain'tcha?"

"Am not," Race says, laughing as he sets his phone aside. He folds his arms and rests his chin on them, getting comfortable where he's sprawled on his stomach on Spot's bed. "That was one time. Some of them's funny."

"They're pointless pop psych," Spot counters. "S'like horoscopes. S'just vague hypotheticals to make people feel good 'bout themselves."

"You're just pissy 'cause that one said if you were a dog, you'd be a chihuahua." Race's giggle breaks off into a yelp when Spot throws a pen at him. "But it's super true," he continues. "You're tiny and angry."

Spot scoffs. "Pop psych," he repeats vehemently. "All them things are written by twelve-year-olds with too much free time. It's easy makin' up that shit, I can do it too. Youse a poodle 'cause youse curly and obnoxious."

"I'm a labradoodle, thank you very much," Race argues. "'Cause I'm active and social and like to be 'round people."

"And youse curly," Spot tacks on with a grin.

"Shaddup," Race says, carding a hand through his hair self-consciously. "S'just 'cause it's long. I'm gettin' it cut soon. On'y so long 'cause I ain't making the mistake lettin' Jack cut it for me 'gain." Spot chuckles under his breath as they both remember the disastrous outcome of Race's last haircut at the end of his first month at the Refuge; by the time Race finally got it relatively even again, it was barely longer than a buzz, and it's taken most the summer to get it grown out again.

"Yeah, you pro'lly should've checked his resume before lettin' him near ya with scissors," Spot agrees in amusement. The comment makes Race dart a glance at his phone again, thinking of the story of Jack's last job, but he shakes it off. No point bringing it up, since Spot obviously knows already anyway.

"Fuck, think I'd almost trust Davey to do a better job," Race says, smirking. As Spot laughs appreciatively, Race checks the time. "Practice time," he announces, sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

Spot nods and turns back to his laptop. "Be down in a bit," he says, already typing again. Race sneaks a glance at the screen as he passes but it's just a solid block of text, too small for him to make out any words without getting closer, with no pictures or titles to give him a hint. Shaking his head, Race lets himself out of the room to go change for his practice.

Now that his audition is less than a month away, Race's evening rehearsal time is just endless repetitions of his choreography. He's made some minor changes since talking to Specs last week, small tweaks to make it smoother and upping the difficulty on one of his turns just to show off, but mostly he spends hours polishing. This choreography is harder than anything he's ever performed before, but he's determined to have it down to muscle-memory by the time his audition comes so he can deliver it flawlessly without thought.

Of course, because of that, he really doesn't blame Spot for not coming down until halfway through his practice. Doing the same routine over and over and over is monotonous even to Race, who is used to it. He can totally get that it's gotta be boring to watch. Still, even though he comes down later, Spot always watches him practice with fascination, those dark eyes attentive and calculating. And after months of watching, Spot's actually started to pick up on a lot of the basics.

"That looked wrong," he comments, eyes narrowed as Race stops with a huff.

"Yeah, I was on the wrong foot," Race says, shaking his head. "Forgot the fuckin' _changement_ again." He resets his position and counts through the moves again, nodding when he reaches the end of the set correctly this time. When he catches Spot's approving nod from the corner of his eye, Race smiles. "Nice catch, Spotty," he says. "Keep this up, we gonna make a proper ballet critic of ya."

Spot snorts. "Sure, I'll do that for a livin'," he says dryly. "Go watch ya do this on stage and write shit like 'Was cool 'cept that move made your ass look weird.'"

Surprised, Race laughs so hard he doubles over clutching his stomach. "Dude, that'd be the fuckin' best," he says enthusiastically. Then his smile flickers and he cocks his head. "Wait, did it really make my ass look weird?"

"Shaddup and practice, ya idiot," Spot says, rolling his eyes, but he's grinning.

Race waves a hand dismissively at him, but he walks over to start his music. With his hand on the speaker, he pauses thoughtfully. "I know you're kiddin'," Race says, glancing over his shoulder to where Spot's sitting, "but it'd be cool if ya would come. If I was performin', I mean, like if I get this tourin' job."

Spot ducks his head and shrugs. "Who'd want this face in a fancy place like that?" he says sarcastically.

"I would," Race responds immediately. Spot darts a quick glance up at him, startled and hesitant, and Race smiles. "Course I would. You're my best friend." It's a good thing Race didn't expect a reply because Spot has that look of his again that says he's retreated up into his head, his brow furrowed in concentration and gaze distant. Race just starts his music over and gets back to practice, powering through the next hour of looping through the routine.

It isn't until Race is done for the night that Spot finally speaks up again. "Hey, Racer." Laying on the floor of the studio doing his nightly cooldown stretches, Race tips his head back to look upside-down at where Spot's sitting. Spot smirks in amusement at the sight. "Ya still wanna come 'long on a ride?"

Race rolls over to look at Spot properly, biting his lip. "On your motorcycle?"

"No, on my magic carpet," Spot says acerbically. "Yeah, the bike. Was thinkin' of goin' for a ride, get outta the house a bit, if ya still wanna come."

Out of the house. Race hasn't left the apartment in weeks, too scared of running into someone working for Weasel that might recognize him. Surely if Weasel's still poking around Race's dance studio, he's got folks keeping an eye out for him around the city, too. Right? New York's a big city, but there's always that chance. Of course, it's well-passed sunset now, the world outside the studio blinds dark. And the motorcycle is fast, so the odds of someone getting a good look at them is low.

Also, Race just _really_ wants to; he's going stir-crazy in the apartment, utterly unused to staying in one place so long. Hell, there's been apartments of his own he's lived in for less time than this place. Between that and trying to quit smoking and the stress of his ma and the anxiety of his upcoming audition-

"Fuck yeah," Race agrees with a grin.

Twenty minutes later, they're both down in the garage, Race changed out of his dancewear and Spot donning his leather jacket. They've managed to avoid the attention of the adults, Jack and Davey both in the art studio and oblivious to the sneaking teenagers. Spot tugs on his gloves and then holds out the helmet toward Race. "Just shaddup and put it on," he says when Race wrinkles his nose.

"Someone's bossy tonight," Race counters, but he reluctantly slides the helmet over his head. It's slightly claustrophobic, the padding inside snug against his skull, and the visor tints the world in shades of gray.

Spot nods approvingly and pulls up the hood of his jacket. "Now ya don't gotta worry 'bout folks seein' your face," he says, and something sticks in Race's stomach at the realization. The hood helps when they're still, but it probably won't stay up against the wind; Spot's given up his shields for the night so that Race will be safe. "'Sides, already gonna get in trouble for doin' this, don't want Jack ridin' my ass for lettin' ya on the bike without a helmet."

"What about you?" Race asks and cringes at the way his voice echoes back at him off the inside of the helmet.

"Like my pretty face can get worse," Spot says dryly. Before Race can think of anything to say to that, Spot has mounted the bike, and he glances over his shoulder daringly. "So, you comin' or ya gonna chicken on me?"

If he's honest with himself, Race is a little nervous, his head humming with the memory of that first, dizzying ride through the city. More than the nerves, though, he feels his pulse skyrocketing with excitement; Race's always been an adrenaline junkie. Clutching Spot's shoulders for balance, Race swings a leg over the seat and settles down behind Spot. It's more than a little snug and Race fidgets at the feel of his hips bracketing Spot's. "Feet up there," Spot says, pointing back to little metal protrusions that Race can prop his feet against so they're out of the way. "M'kay, ready?"

Before Race can even open his mouth to answer, Spot guns the accelerator. Race yelps and wraps his arms around Spot's chest to stop himself from sliding off the back of the seat. "Asshole!" Race bellows at him over the growl of the engine reverberating off the garage walls. Spot doesn't answer, maneuvering the bike into the narrow alley and out onto the street, but Race feels the laugh that vibrates his ribs.

The streets blur beyond the tinted visor as Spot navigates the motorcycle through the roads and back alleys, weaving in and out of the traffic that fills the city even at this hour. Race clings to him, lightheaded at the speed, even as he thrills at being outside again. It feels so good to get out from behind those walls, to slide seamlessly back into the endless mass of life that fills New York at any given time.

There's something wild and exhilarating about the bike, a reckless insecurity that sets Race's heart pounding. The wind tears at his clothes, and oftentimes they slip close enough to cars that Race could touch them if he dared to let go of Spot's jacket. It's terrifying in the same way a rollercoaster is, that heady rush of defying death.

Spot doesn't seem to have any specific destination in mind; he steers them out of the Heights toward the coast, following the curve of the bay all the way down passed Coney Island, before he finally turns them back into the city near the navy yards. The wind that cuts in off the bay is frigid even in the summer heat, slicing through his thin jacket like needles, and Race distractedly wishes he could feel it on his face.

It's well into the night when Spot slows them as they get closer to the city center until they reach a road that wraps around the edge of Prospect Park. Having lived in the city his whole life, Race is fascinated by the stretches of grass and trees that seem to go on forever. There are silvery glimpses of a pond beneath the glow of the lampposts. Spot steers them up along the border until they reach the north end, where he parks the motorcycle outside the Brooklyn Library.

"We stopping?" Race asks curiously and Spot nods, tugging his hood back over his head. After so long on the bike, it takes Race a second to get his feet again when they dismount, and he catches Spot's smirk. "Shaddup," Race says, scrubbing a hand through his curls in an attempt to fix the mess the helmet's made of them. He hooks the helmet over the handlebar of the bike and looks around curiously. "Why here?"

"You been before?" Spot asks, gesturing over a shoulder at the park.

Race shakes his head. "Nah, ain't spent much time in Brooklyn," he admits. Spot looks personally offended by this statement, and Race laughs. "Been to Coney once a couple years ago."

"Unbelievable," Spot says under his breath, shaking his head. Plunging his hands into the pockets of his jacket, he nods toward the nearest walk. "C'mon, let's fix that. I know ain't no one gonna be lookin' for ya in there, and I wanna show ya somethin'." Race falls into step easily beside Spot as they head into the shade of the trees, the sidewalks lit by staggered light posts, and the sounds of the city fade to a comforting backdrop behind the wind and leaves.

"We ain't gonna get mugged or nothin', right?" Race asks, half-joking, as they pass a bench that's occupied by what appears to be a living pile of tattered fabric soaked in vodka.

Spot scoffs. "Pretty sure I can scare off anyone gives us trouble," he says, glancing sideways to give Race a pointed look. Although his hood is pulled back up, here out of the eye of the public, Spot's walking with his head lifted enough that Race can see most of his face when they pass under lights. Race is so used to it now after seeing him all the time, but he sometimes almost forgets that Spot would probably be pretty frightening to anyone not expecting it.

Turning his focus back to the tree-lined walk, Race gazes around in interest. "Come here a lot?"

"Often 'nough," Spot agrees. "I love Brooklyn, but sometimes it's nice ta' have a bit of trees and stuff. And this time of night, s'easy ta' not be seen, so I been comin' here when I wanna get away from the house." He pauses for a second, glancing at the trees off to their left, and then nods. "C'mon, this way."

"Where we goin'?" Race asks even as he obligingly follows Spot off the main path. The grass is still dry from the early August heat, not close enough to morning for dew, and it whispers under their shoes as Spot leads the way further into the darkness. It feels like an adventure, like the sort of make-believe games he played with kids in the neighborhood when he was little, as they slip away from civilization and further into the shadowy jungle of the park.

Spot stops at a cluster of trees, beyond which is a towering fence, and his smile is nothing more than a quick flash of teeth in the darkness. He ducks behind the trees and peels back a piece of fence, which appears to have been cut at some point. Squeezing through the gap, he turns back and holds open the fence expectantly. "You comin'?"

"Do I even wanna ask?" Race says, glancing between the cut fence and what he can see of Spot's face beneath the rim of his hood.

"C'mon, Higgins, dare ya," Spot replies, and fuck it all if he doesn't know that's Race's kryptonite. Huffing a breath, Race climbs awkwardly through the gap in the fence. Spot lets it go, and the chain-link snaps back into place, leaving no indication that there's anything out of the ordinary. When Race shoots a questioning look at him, Spot shrugs. "I know a guy."

" _You_ know a guy," Race echoes skeptically. "You can count the number of people you talk to on one hand."

Spot snorts. "I've been comin' here years," he says. "I ain't always had such a glamorous social life. Now ya gonna shaddup and lemme show you 'round?"

Curiosity getting the better of him, Race glances around them. They are on the edge of what appears to be some sort of Japanese garden, filled with stone terraces of flowers and those funky red gate arches. "What is this place?" he asks as he hurries to follow after Spot, who is heading for the nearest walking path.

"Brooklyn Botanic Garden," Spot answers with a grand gesture, then goes back to peeling off his gloves. "Prettiest damn place you gonna find in all'a New York."

Race can't stop his surprised laugh. "A botanic garden? Long-time green thumb, Spotty?"

Spot smacks him around the back of the head in response. "Told ya, I like lookin' at pretty things," he says, plunging his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "My favorite place in the whole city, been comin' here since I was a kid. All these fancy gardens laid out for diff'rent themes and stuff, like this one's Japanese. Those ponds there? They got a whole buncha them koi fish, as big as your arm."

As Spot goes on talking about the different parts of the gardens, Race can't help but watch him in fascination. A wide gesture knocks his hood off, but he doesn't bother fixing it, since it's just the two of them, and his face is animated as he talks. Spot navigates the walking paths like an expert, pointing out plants and plaques even in the poor lighting. Race can't help but think it's probably the most at peace he's ever seen Spot look.

They make their way around until they reach a path that leads down the middle of two rows of trees. Race doesn't miss the way Spot's steps slow ever-so-slightly when they move beneath the draping branches that stretch across the path. "Wrong time'a year," Spot says, gesturing upward. His Brooklyn drawl is stronger again the way it gets when he's nervous, and it makes an ominous chill crawl down Race's spine. "Ya come in spring, these things is all full of these pink and white flowers. They got a whole big festival 'bout it in Japan. I'm talkin' big deal. Like, two straight weeks all dedicated ta' these cherry blossoms."

"Two weeks of holidays 'bout flowers?" Race asks incredulously.

"You'll have ta' look up some pich'urs. All that color, and when the petals start fallin' off and they're just drifting 'round like snowflakes." Spot shakes his head. "I mean, photos ain't the same, but it's somethin'. But there's nothin' like seein' it for real." He clears his throat, and his hands disappear into his pockets again. "One'a the only real mem'ries I got of my mom's right here, unda these trees."

Race's gaze snaps sideways in shock; while Spot's made a few angry comments under his breath about his father before, he's never really mentioned his mother. Spot's shoulders are hunching up again, the way he does when he's about to go hide in his room for a few hours, but he just licks his lips and presses on, "She brought me here, once, for the bloomin' season. I was on'y four. I rememba her tellin' me all 'bout the cherry blossoms while we walked around, and it was snowin' petals so hard ya almost couldn't see. Anyway, most of what she was talkin' 'bout I didn't really understand, but what I really 'member is she was just so happy, ya know? Happiest I ever seen her."

"Spot?" Race prompts when the pause drags out for several seconds.

Spot clears his throat again. "She died, just a coupl'a weeks later. Shot, in a muggin' they said. Some punk ass kid killed her for the money in her purse." He scoffs. "On'y that wasn't true. I didn't find out for years and years, a'course, but truth was my old man pissed somebody off, and they snuffed her as payback."

"Jesus," Race breathes, chest seizing. "Spot, I-" He stops, shaking his head, because what the hell is he supposed to say to that? There is no amount of sorrys in the world that can match up to a confession like that. "That's awful."

"Thing is, ta' those kinda people, it ain't," Spot says with a humorless laugh. "Ain't a horrible thing to kill someone just for bein' married ta' the wrong guy. It's just doin' business. They don't care 'bout people's lives, they just care 'bout makin' sure the books is even. You take from me, I take from you. End a' story." They've reached the end of the trees and Spot stops, taking a deep, shuddering breath. "And Race, I - I was one of them kinda people."

Race nods. "Yeah, I guessed." Spot's head turns sharply, his eyes wide and surprised in the darkness. "What? I may not be as smart as you, but I ain't stupid," Race says indignantly. "Wasn't hard to figure. I seen the way you act, always lookin' 'round like you expect an assassin to jump out at ya. I figured ya must've been involved in some bad shit."

"And you stuck around?" Spot asks, brow furrowed. "And you come out here, middle the night, alone with me? Knowing that?"

"Sure," Race agrees without hesitation.

"Jesus Christ, you really must have a death wish," Spot mutters, shaking his head.

That prompts a disbelieving snort from Race. "Please, I ain't scared of you." Spot is still staring at him in genuine confusion, and Race feels it pang somewhere deep in his chest. "You don't get it, do ya? You missed the biggest thing in all you said. Was."

"Was?" Spot repeats, frowning.

"Yeah, 'was,' stupid," Race says, laughing breathlessly. "You _was_ one of them people. Past tense."

Spot scoffs, half-hysterical, and he drags a hand back over his skull in a frustrated gesture. "Fuck, Race, it's not like that sorta thing just goes away. I was born in it. Lived my whole life in that shit. I did things - These marks," he holds up a hand, showing the scarred runes on the back, "ev'ry one of 'em is for a life I fucked up. For someone I hurt, or worse. I got blood on my hands. That ain't never gonna just stop bein' true."

"You're right, it ain't," Race argues back emphatically. "Difference is, you care 'bout that. It's like you said; those other guys, the ones that killed your ma, they don't care. They aren't keepin' lists or stressin' about whose lives they fucked up. You do. And that ain't gonna magically erase all the bad things, but it does make you a different person than them, and that's important."

The silence stretches out endlessly between them, Spot staring at Race like he's a complex puzzle that he can't solve, and Race staring back with his chin lifted defiantly, just daring Spot to try and fight him. For a long minute, the only sound between them is the rustle of the cherry tree leaves and their breathing. Then, distantly, a crunch of wheels and voices.

"Shit," Spot hisses. "Security. C'mon." He grabs Race's wrist and takes off running down the path. They dart down several walkways until finally, Spot drags Race aside and into the shelter of a row of flowering bushes. He tugs Race down with him, one hand darting out to cover Race's mouth when he yelps at nearly having his eye gouged out by a branch, and they hunker awkwardly inside of the bushes, tense and waiting.

It's a good five minutes that feel like a million years before the crunch of gravel beneath wheels finally passes them by, a light casting over the bushes making Race press himself closer to Spot inside their hideout. They crouch there, both barely breathing, until the sound of the golf cart fades off into the distance.

Race copies Spot's exhale of relief, the both of them relaxing slightly, although Spot's hand hasn't dropped from Race's mouth. When Race clears his throat pointedly, Spot's eyes widen, and he lowers his hand, but the movement is slow and his thumb ghosts against the corner of Race's lips. A sudden surge of heat wells up Race's stomach and he swallows hard, meeting Spot's gaze as best as he can in the darkness. The moment hovers, fragile as glass, in the air, before Spot abruptly looks away.

"C'mon, we should get outta here," he whispers with an airy chuckle. "'Sides, it'll be mornin' soon."


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the kinda late post. Flu season = my office in absolute chaos, and for some reason, they frown upon me editing and uploading fanfiction while on the clock. 
> 
> Thanks as always for your guys' endless support and encouragement, you've been amazing and I really do appreciate it.

The next morning, Race wanders into the kitchen to find himself facing a pair of matching smirks, and he very nearly turns around and goes straight back to bed. "Damn, Jack, think this's the first time you got down here before me," he quips to cover, crossing to the coffee maker. He's relieved to see that there's still more than enough left for him to pour a cup; he has a feeling he's going to need it.

"Yeah, well, that'll happen when ya sleep 'til noon," Jack responds, grinning over the rim of his own mug. Race shoots a curious glance at the clock on the stove. Not _quite_ noon yet, but Jack may still have a point there. "Was gonna check you was still breathin' if ya didn't come down soon."

Davey rolls his eyes in fond exasperation. "Ignore him," he says to Race.

"Always do," Race replies.

Jack makes a rude hand gesture that is cut off when Davey grabs his wrist with frightening accuracy. "Late night?" Davey asks conversationally, although his teasing smile betrays him. "I heard you coming in pretty late. Or early, rather."

Race snorts. "You know the best bit about not havin' folks?" he says. "The bit where I don't gotta deal with parents pryin' into my business."

Laughing, Davey holds up a hand in surrender. "I'm not prying," he says. "We were just curious. It was a bit surprising to hear you two take off in the middle of the night."

"Surprised ya noticed, honestly," Race retorts, grinning. "You two seemed pretty preoccupied when we left, all locked up in the art studio together. We thought maybe Jack was paintin' ya like one his French girls."

Jack shoots him a dry look even as his ears burn pink. Davey scoffs. "That's a terrible joke, even for you," the blind man informs him with a smirk. "Are you even old enough to have seen that movie?"

"Who needs to watch the movie when memes exist?" Race counters with a shrug. "But for real, Leo is hot as hell."

"And he's only gotten better with time," Jack agrees with an approving hum. He sips at his coffee, and his smile fades just a little bit. "Honestly, takin' off without sayin' anything like ya did, we weren't so sure you were comin' back. Thought maybe you'd conned Spot into giving you a lift to the bus station or somethin'."

Race glances between the two men, both unsuccessfully masking their discomfort, and he feels something twist in his stomach. It still seems strange to him, but he realizes that they've would've been upset if he had left. These two men with more than enough of their own to deal with, who only ever met him by coincidence, actually would've _missed_ him. It's a bizarre feeling, this sense of belonging in a place, and Race takes an overly large gulp of coffee to mask the flicker of warmth in his chest. "Don't getcha hopes up," Race says with a sarcastic laugh. "Ain't gettin' rid of me that easy."

"Bummer," Jack says wryly, and with it, the tension in the room dissipates. Davey scoffs and elbows Jack indignantly. "What? Like you weren't thinkin' it. Really, one moody teenager's more'an enough for me, thanks."

"Oh please," Davey counters. "When you get into a painting funk, you're worse than ten angsty teens combined."

"Ha!" Race crows triumphantly over the sound of Jack's protest. "Davey loves me more than you!"

Jack shakes his head. "You're lucky you're such a damn good cook," he mutters, but there's no venom behind it. "Well, next time you two decide to go joyriding, could ya give a heads-up so we don't worry? And no more rides 'til we get another helmet. I don't like either of you bein' on that thing without one."

"Yes, Dad," Race faux-mumbles, hanging his head like a dejected child. Davey hastily turns his laugh into a cough.

Although Jack shakes his head again, there's a faintly pleased tilt to his smile. "If that's what it takes for you to listen to me, I'll take it," he says. "And don't you laugh too hard," he adds to Davey. "You realize that makes you the mom of this house then, right?"

A bright, teasing grin slips across Race's face. "Oh my God, he's right, you're _totally_ a mom-friend," he says excitedly. "It's so perfect." Davey blusters a protest as Jack giggles into his coffee. Race tops off his mug and fills another one. "Okay, folks, I'm gonna take this up to Spot. Figure he's gonna be a grump today."

"As opposed to every other day?" Jack intones, grinning.

"A'right, _more_ a grump," Race concedes with a laugh. "You two behave yourselves. Or if you don't, a'least put a sock on the door, 'kay?" Race winks cheekily, and their flustered objections follow Race out of the room.

Snickering to himself, Race climbs the stairs. He can't hear movement when he gets to the door at the top, and he awkwardly knocks with the side of his foot. "Go 'way," comes the bleary growl from inside the room.

"I brought coffee," Race coaxes.

A pause, and then, "Door's unlocked." Grinning, Race tucks one mug into the crook of his arm so he can open the door. The bedroom is dimly lit, the only light coming from around the edges of the closed curtains on the windows, and Race only finds Spot by the bare foot protruding from beneath the mound of blankets on the bed. Race sets the coffee mugs on the bedside table and then hops up to sit on the mattress heavily enough to jostle Spot, who grumbles irritably.

"I'm hidin' out in here, by the way," Race informs him, folding his legs up and making himself comfortable. "Mom and dad are bein' disgustingly cute again, and I'm gonna barf if I have to listen to it." The pile of blankets chuckles. "To think they ach'lly wonder why you spend all your time up here. I'd become a hermit too if I was stuck with that for a whole year."

Spot grunts, stretching, and finally shoves the blankets back to reveal his head. There's a pillow crease along his cheek, his eyes still heavy with sleep, and the sight is somehow oddly cute. Race hastily grabs his coffee to hide his smile. "Right? Wish they'd just screw and get it over with a'ready. Least someone in this house'd be gettin' some then."

Leaning his back against the headboard, Race snorts a laugh into his coffee mug. "For real. I've never 'shipped something so hard in my life." Spot chuckles and then grouses his way through sitting up. The blanket slips down to pool against his waist, baring the compact lines of Spot's bare torso, and Race immediately diverts his attention back to his coffee when the view makes his stomach flip.

"You're a weirdo," Spot says with a smirk, then reaches across Race to grab the second cup of coffee. The shorter boy hums appreciatively as he takes a sip, folding his legs on the bed in front of him.

"Sure, but so are you so s'fine," Race responds, grinning.

Spot huffs a laugh, but his gaze turns thoughtful, that little line forming between his brows the way it does when he's up in his head. He licks his lips and clears his throat before starting, "Hey, 'bout last night - didja mean it?"

"Mean what?" Race asks, head cocked curiously.

"That you ain't bothered," Spot elaborates, darting a quick glance up before his eyes go down to his lap again. "About me, I mean. And the shit I done."

Race considers Spot's bowed head, chewing on the tip of his tongue as he tries to arrange his thoughts. "Since my ma picked up the drugs, I've met a lotta bad people," he says slowly, fingers tapping a non-rhythm against the side of his mug. "S'how I figured ya must'a been in a gang or somethin', 'cause you act the same sometimes. All jumpy and tense, ya know? But the guys my ma brought home scared me. You don't."

"Why not?" Spot asks, forehead furrowing.

"Those guys were proud of gettin' into trouble. Liked feelin' like they were fightin' the man, got off on how tough they was," Race explains. "This fucker my ma was sleepin' with a bit, he was one of those guys that'd brag 'bout beatin' someone's ass, like hurtin' people made him cool. Called him on it once and he pulled a gun on me, said if I thought I was so much better 'an him, should prove it. That he'd kick my ass, but he don't punch _girls_. That maybe a proper stompin' would get the fairy out, make me into a real man."

Race sneers furiously at the memory, his knuckles going white around his coffee mug. Then he hears the low, dangerous noise that Spot makes, and it tugs a smile from him. "And _that's_ why you're different," Race says pointedly. "'Cause you think that guy's an asshole too."

Spot takes a deep breath, his face creased like he's in pain. "But I _was_ that guy," he counters. "Year ago, I would'a done shit like that too. I _did_ do shit like that."

"But you don't no more," Race says and shrugs. "I mean, first thing you did was save my life. You tried to help Davey get his eyes fixed. Fuck, you built me a whole studio. You do good things, Spotty. So maybe ya did bad things before but that don't make you a bad person."

"Not ev'ryone agrees with ya on that," Spot says with a sarcastic laugh, lifting a hand to touch the silver lines embedded in his brow.

Race huffs. "Well, they're wrong. Just like with Jack." Spot's eyes widen slightly in surprise and Race smirks. "Oh, yeah, I sorta Googled him. But that's the thing, 'cause maybe he did somethin' wrong, but he's still a good person. And so are you. I don't care whatcha done in the past. You're my friend now, so that's all that matters to me." He sets aside his half-empty coffee mug and then takes the mug from Spot when he realizes the other boy's hands are shaking enough that the coffee is threatening to spill. "Spot, is that really how ya got these?" he asks softly, tapping a rune on Spot's wrist.

Nodding jerkily, Spot draws his legs up to his chest and wraps his arms around them. "Never really thought nothin' 'bout the stuff I did," he says quietly, speaking to his knees. "Just did what I was told, ya know? Was my job, was what I was born doin'. The old man says 'That guy owes, make him pay,' and I did. Then one day, this woman - anyway, says she's gonna make me look as much a monster outside as I am inside. And, well," he trails off with a deliberate gesture toward his face.

"That's so stupid," Race says, scowling. "Who's that chick think she is, gettin' to decide shit like that? Besides, she clearly don't know nothin' 'bout monsters; you don't got fangs or horns or nothin'."

Spot scoffs but a small grin flickers across his lips. "Watch out, don't give her ideas." When Race snorts, the shorter boy glances up at him uncertainly. "I know ya still don't believe me," he adds with a shallow smile. "About the witch and curse and all." 

"I dunno, not so sure anymore," Race admits. "Not an easy idea to get behind, but it just don't make sense other ways either. But ya know, Jack said a thing; don't matter if folks believe in a thing or not, it's still gonna be true."

"That so, fortune cookie?" Spot replies, smirking. Race laughs and shoves Spot by the shoulder. After a few minutes, when their laughter has faded into quiet, Spot's expression softens in that way it usually only does when he thinks no one's looking. "Thanks, Racer. I'm glad I gotcha for a friend, even if ya do stop me from sleepin' in."

Race chuckles, bumping his knee against Spot's, even as a comforting warmth spreads through him at the sentiment. "Ain't stoppin' you from nothin'," he counters. "I just told ya I'm hiding out in here, you're the one keeps talkin' to me. If you wanna go back to sleep, I ain't gonna stop ya." He pulls out his phone in a pointed gesture, propping his back against the headboard and clicking into a game. "Have a nice nap."

Rolling his eyes, Spot gives Race a calculating look, like he doesn't believe Race but is willing to see how far he'll take it. "Keep the volume off then," he says, nodding toward Race's phone, and then flops lazily onto his pillow again. Spot stretches out on his back, arm draped over his eyes, and Race allows himself a minute to appreciate the view - because tattoos and scars aside, Spot's muscles make Race's head spin - before he goes back to Candy Crush.

There's a comfortable quiet in the room, the only sound Spot's slow, even breathing, and Race doesn't notice when his eyes start drooping. Despite the coffee, he still got way less sleep last night than he's used to and his game doesn't hold his interest enough to stop his head from bobbing. He slumps against the headboard, phone slipping into his lap as he drifts off.

Movement on the other side of the bed jerks Race out of his doze, and he blinks awake blearily. Rubbing his eyes, he sees that the shift of the mattress was just Spot rolling over in his sleep. Race closes out of the level of Candy Crush still open on his screen and sets his phone aside. It's only been a half hour or so and Race casts a glance at Spot, debating whether he should just go back to his room, when the sight makes him pause.

Spot is rolled onto his side, his back to Race, and it's the first proper view Race's ever gotten of it. There's a row of those same gashes like on his chest, staggered with bits of embedded silver lines, which run diagonally from one hip to the opposite shoulder. Like the rest of him, there's an array of those jagged, angular runes and lines tattooed into his skin, but it's the one that is different that really catches Race's eye.

The back of Spot's left shoulder is dominated by a large tattoo of interwoven lines that weave around and through each other into a circle divided vertically in two. The lines that cross through the middle of the ring are vaguely hourglass-shaped, flared at top and bottom where they join back up with the main circle. In the open area of the left side, a tiny pink and white flower is floating alone.

Curious, Race reaches out to gingerly trace the lines. The moment he makes contact with skin, Spot bolts awake, rolling so Race's wrist is pinned beneath his weight as Spot's hand lurches out to close around Race's throat. Before Race even has time to gasp in surprise, Spot drops his hand and skitters backward on the bed until his spine is pressed to the wall.

"Jesus Christ, Racer," Spot snaps out furiously, breathing hard. Despite the wild light in his eyes, Spot's gaze flicks anxiously to Race's neck in an obvious check for injury. "Don't do that. Ya tryna getcha'self socked?"

"Sorry, didn't realize you were such a jumpy sleeper," Race says with a slight smirk. Spot deadpans at him, arms folding over his chest, and Race holds up a hand in surrender. "Right, sorry. I really didn't mean to scare ya. I was just lookin' at that tattoo. It's not like all the others."

Spot scrubs a hand over his face, visibly collecting himself. "Pro'lly 'cause I got that one on purpose," he says finally.

"It's pretty," Race says sincerely, and then adds, "I mean, unless that's gonna mess with some macho guy thing."

Scoffing, Spot smirks and relaxes. "Leave my fragile male ego outta this," he retorts. Race laughs, surprised. "Nah, it's supposed to be."

"Can I look?" Race asks curiously. "Or will you punch me again or something?"

"Might punch ya just 'cause," Spot says dryly, a hint of a smile lingering at the lines around his eyes. Still, he obligingly moves away from the wall and turns enough for the back of his shoulder to become visible again. Race tilts his head and leans in to see better, eyes drinking in the beautifully intricate weave of the lines. It's insanely detailed, the way the lines of the circle braid through each other in unfathomable patterns. Race traces a finger along a path, trying to follow it around the circle.

"Thought ya said _look_ ," Spot says, shooting a disapproving glance over his shoulder. "You look with your hands?"

"Yep, learned it from Dave," Race answers without missing a beat, and Spot doesn't completely mask his amused snort. As Race trails down the center lines, he feels Spot shiver under his touch. "I've seen things like this before, the twisty knot things. It's an Irish thing, ain't it?"

"Celtic," Spot corrects idly, but he nods. "They're s'posed to be a never-ending loop; can follow the lines forever and it just goes back into itself. Means eternity and all that. The one I got is called a Tree of Life knot."

"Ah, the green thumb thing again."

Spot reaches back to smack Race's leg. "Got it for my mom, if ya must know. Thought she'd like it."

Comprehension washes over Race, and his fingertip drifts to the little flower. "Oh, this one of those cherry flowers?" he asks and Spot nods. "That's cool. It's good when tattoos got a meaning, ya know? There's this guy in my building all covered in skulls and flames and shit 'cause he thinks it makes him look badass."

Spot snorts. "Good thing youse not one of those people that hates on folks for havin' tats."

"Only when they're stupid tats," Race replies with a huff.

His gaze drifts across the rest of Spot's back, and it snags on the parallel gashes that stretch from his shoulder to his hip. From this close, he can see that they look like actual injuries, like someone tore through the skin with a knife that wasn't sharpened enough, leaving the edges ragged and bumpy. Except they aren't scabbed, the skin in the middle of the cuts a glossy dark rose. The rest of the scars and tattoos can be explained rationally, but these are just - _wrong_. Open wounds that haven't healed or even changed in months. And the way that warped metal looks like it's fused with his skin...

Licking his lips, Race moves his hand to run a finger along the edge of the top gash and Spot tenses. "Do they hurt?" Race asks uncertainly.

"Nah, don't bug me," Spot says softly. "Never did, even when they happened. Just showed up. Look worse'an they feel." Race touches one of the twisted silver lines tentatively and Spot shivers. "Those feel weird, sometimes they tug a bit, or snag in my clothes," Spot adds. "But they don't hurt neither."

"Good," Race says resolutely. Spot turns his head enough to raise an eyebrow in question. "I'm glad they don't hurt. You don't deserve that."

Spot makes a derisive noise. "That was kinda the whole point of 'em," he reminds him. "Deservin' it for what I done." He shudders slightly beneath Race's fingers, and pulls his hands into his lap. Around the edge of his shoulder, Race sees Spot grinding a thumb against the inside of his wrist in a weird anxious tic. "Nah, the scars is just to remind, so I can't forget what I done and who I used ta' be."

Something about the way he says it strikes Race and his eyes widen. "Is - that's why you won't tell me your name, isn't it?" he says and Spot shivers under Race's palm.

"I don't wanna be that guy no more," Spot says resolutely. "The guy with that name, he's gone, and I'm not goin' back." He lifts his eyes enough to catch Race's gaze from the corner of his eye. "Or maybe I just didn't wantcha Googlin' me too."

Race huffs a small laugh. "Don't underestimate my Googlin' powers," he warns with a grin. Spot snorts, dropping his gaze back to his hands. They sit in a tentative quiet for a minute, until Race realizes that his palm is still pressed flat to Spot's spine. Clearing his throat, Race pulls his hand away and tries not to think about the lingering warmth in his skin. "But ya know, changin' your name don't make you a different person," he says thoughtfully. "It's the things you _do_ that do that part."

There's a long moment as Spot considers that, brow furrowed as he rubs his thumb along the inside of his wrist, and then he casts another sideways glance at Race. "Well, ain't you just full of all kinds'a sage advice today," he teases. "Thanks, sensei."

"Well, one of us gotta be smart," Race rebuts, laughing. "Figured I'd step up since you're failin' that today."

"Youse a shit-head, ya know that?" Spot says, but the lines of his face have eased, the furrows at the corners of his eyes hinting at a smile. He exhales heavily and scrubs a hand over his skull. "I dunno 'bout you, but I'm hungry. Wanna go see if the old folks are done flirtin' so we can eat?"


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You asked for it...

Race folds his arms below his head, staring up at the murky gray sky overhead. "Sometimes I wonder what it'd be like to live someplace you can see the stars," he muses aloud. "I've lived here my whole life, so I've never really seen that before, ya know?"

"It's nice," Spot says, on his back on the rooftop next to him. It's nearing on midnight now, the muggy summer air more tolerable without the added heat of the sun, and it's almost comfortable as they lounge in the gathered darkness. It also doesn't hurt that the layer of shadows grants them some privacy, enough that Spot doesn't feel the need to don his usual hoodie. "I rememba, after my mom died, we went out to stay at this place in the Catskills. Just trees and sky and stars goin' on foreva."

"You ever think 'bout moving to a place like that?" Race asks curiously. Spot shakes his head, the gravel crunching beneath him at the motion. "Really? I thought you'd be into that, with how you like _pretty_ things. Someplace out in the middle of nowhere, room for a garden and stuff."

"I guess," Spot agrees. "Just - Brooklyn's _home_ , ya know?" He tucks his arms beneath his head, mirroring Race's position. "I like visitin' places like that, but I dunno if I'd ever live anywhere else."

Race hums thoughtfully. "Makes sense. I dunno, nowhere's felt like home since my pa died. Ma and I've moved around a lot since, and nothing ever felt real, I guess. Think I always knew we'd end up movin' again soon enough so why care? Hell, this place feels more like home than any those places." Which is a truth that Race doesn't want to spend too long analyzing, that this hideaway with these random people thrown together by circumstance feels more stable and permanent to him than the place he left behind.

"I dunno, maybe that's part why I want to get into this touring group so bad," he continues. "A chance to get outta here and see the world. Maybe I'll find a place out there that feels right."

Spot doesn't answer immediately, and when Race glances sideways at him, the other boy is staring distractedly up into some middle distance. It's an expression he's been wearing more and more often lately. "That's coming up soon, ain't it?" he asks finally. "Your audition?"

"Ten days," Race answers, feeling a rush of nerves well up in him. "Or, well, nine if it's after midnight."

"Youse goin', right?" Spot asks and turns his head slightly to glance over at Race.

"Yeah, I ain't missin' this," Race says resolutely. "Been three months, no way Weasel's still lookin' for me, right?" It's been over a week since his last update from Specs, and Weasel hasn't been seen at the studio since the last exhibition show more than a month ago.

Spot gives a noncommittal hum, frowning. "Dunno, might not hurt to have someone with ya, just in case," he says. "Maybe you can get Jack to go with ya, watch your back."

"You should come." It's out of Race's mouth before he can think better of it, but he doesn't take it back. Spot makes a derisive noise. "No, I mean it," he insists. "I need you there. You're my lucky charm."

The other boy doesn't do a good job of hiding his amusement at that. "Ya couldn'a just got a rabbit foot or somethin' like normal folks, huh?

"I'm serious," Race says, laughing, and he shoves Spot. "I've gotten used to havin' you there when I'm dancin'. And I could never land that jump 'fore you. I don't wanna take any chances. You gotta be there."

"Ya don't need luck, Racer," Spot says. He turns onto his side, pushing up onto an elbow, to fix Race with a serious look. "You're good, and ya know it. Don't need me there."

"Okay, but what if I _want_ you there?" Race counters, meeting Spot's gaze. The moment hangs between them, that same electric tension from the botanical gardens surging forward. It's been haunting Race's thoughts over the last few days, and he's come to the conclusion that maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing if something came of it. Race licks his lips experimentally, and Spot's eyes dart to the motion, pupils dilating. Liquid heat curls in Race's stomach and he can feel his heartbeat in his fingertips.

Race's phone chimes from his pocket and it shatters the moment, both of them jumping in surprise. Flustered, Race reaches for his phone to silence it - that ringtone is only assigned to the one person, so he knows exactly who's calling. By the time he's rejected his mother's call and looked up again, Spot has shoved up to his feet and paced over to the wall. Race curses his ma and her horrible timing in his head.

Which is, of course, only made worse when she promptly tries to call again.

Scoffing, Race swipes to reject the call and then turns his phone off entirely. He jams it into his pocket and stands, walking slowly over to where Spot's leaning on the concrete ledge. The shorter boy is tense, head bowed and knuckles white where he's gripping the wall, and Race feels a warning flare in the back of his head. "Spotty?" Spot flinches slightly, face turning away from Race. "Spot, somethin' wrong?"

"Ev'rythin's wrong," Spot snaps with another full-body twitch, the Brooklyn accent out in fullest force again. He spins to face Race, and his eyes are oddly bright as he wraps his arms around his chest. "S'all fucked up, and it's all 'cause you."

"Me?" Race echoes, scowling indignantly. "The fuck did I do?"

"I was fine, ya know. Knew there's no future for me, and I'd accepted that. Was a'most kinda ready for it, ya know?" Spot huffs breathlessly, shrugging in an aborted, desperate gesture. "Then _you_ come 'long, and now it's all fucked up, 'cause now I don't want it. Ya made me want things that I ain't never gonna get, and it fuckin' hurts, a'right?"

Race recoils, brow drawn in confusion. "What the hell you talkin' about?"

"Dontcha get it?" Spot barks out, voice cracking. "I don't get a future. There's no _after_ for me. I turn eighteen, and 'less I go back to workin' for the old man, he's gonna ice me 'cause I know too much. And I can't go back, I can't do it. And I was okay with it 'fore. The fuck kinda future is out there for a guy like me anyway? So I was fine. 'Til _you_."

Spot falters, and his eyes are red-rimmed when they meet Race's. The shorter boy takes a shaky breath, licking his lips, before he continues, "'Cause now I know you and I'm not ready for it to be ova. I wanna travel, and I wanna go to college, and I wanna get to see you bein' a star on a big ol' stage. So I hope youse happy, 'cause now I got things ta' lose."

His head is buzzing, and for a long minute, all Race can do is return Spot's stare while his heart pounds in his ears. Then Race does the only thing his reckless brain can think of doing at that moment - seizing a fistful of Spot's shirt, Race drags the other boy up into a kiss.

Spot moans, a low sound that resonates in between them, and melts against Race as he returns the kiss fiercely. It's exhilarating, the bruising pressure of Spot's chapped lips against his own, and Race immediately steps to close the remaining distance between them. When Race moves to deepen the kiss, Spot abruptly shoves him back, hands shaking and breathing heavily. "Don't."

Race frowns, eyes combing over Spot's tense features in the dim light for some hint of what he's thinking. "Okay, if ya really don't want it," he says daringly, arms folding over his chest. "But it sure didn't seem that way a second ago."

"Oh fuck off," Spot snarls, and there's a wild, furious gleam in his eyes now. "I don't needja pity." Race moves without thinking, and it's only when he hears the sharp crack of skin on skin that he realizes what he's done. Spot blinks in surprise, hand coming up to touch his cheek, and he glances up at Race with his brow furrowed. "D'you just _slap_ me?"

"Yes," Race answers, lifting his chin defiantly. "'Cause you deserved it. I don't pity-fuck, asshole. You really think I'm that much a bitch?" Spot still looks confused, and it takes some of the burning rage out of Race's gut. "I fuckin' like you, _stupido_ ," he says firmly. "You're my best friend, and I like hangin' out with you, and you don't even wanna _know_ the sorta dreams I've had 'bout your abs. So if you're stoppin' 'cause you don't like me that way, that's fine, I'm cool with it. But if you're stoppin' 'cause you think I don't like you, then you better shut the fuck up and kiss me."

The moment hangs between them, heavy with anticipation, and then they both move at the same time, hands grasping at fabric and mouths connecting almost desperately. Spot pivots so that the small of Race's back is pressed to the wall. In response, Race tugs at Spot's waist so that their hips slot together, and he groans at the contact. There's something dizzying at the way they fit together, the firm weight of Spot's compact musculature pinning him in place.

Spot kisses the same way he watches Race practice - intent and focused like he's determined to catalog and commit every tiny detail to memory. Race thrills at being the center of that attention just as always, a blend of satisfaction and a need to prove himself. At the same time, there's an endearing awkwardness to Spot, his hands settled loosely at Race's waist like he doesn't know what else to do with them. It reminds Race that this is probably a first for Spot, or at least his first with a guy, and Race's heart once again softens for the boy who's seen so much and experienced so little.

It's only a need for air that pulls them apart and Spot pants against Race's jaw breathlessly. "I don't - how can ya-" Spot huffs and lets his forehead fall onto Race's shoulder in frustration. "I don't get it. How can ya want _me_?"

Race scoffs. "God, and to think ya call me a diva," he says sarcastically. "You're so damn shallow. So you got some scars, whatever."

"Ain't just that," Spot says, but he doesn't draw away, fingers tightening on Race's sides like he's afraid that the blond will disappear if he lets go. "It's all of it. Fuck, Race, guys like me ain't s'posed to get good things. Whole damn reason I'm here is 'cause I'm bein' punished. I ain't s'posed-" He finally lifts his head, voice tremulous when he finishes, "I ain't s'posed to get somethin' perfect as you."

The conviction behind the words steals Race's breath, leaving him speechless. There's so much emotion in Spot's voice, and Race finds his brain instinctively recoiling from it, a dozen different flippant responses jumping forward in his head. But Race swallows back the jokes he'd usually use to break the tension, knowing that this moment is too important for that. This is different. This is _more_.

So Race brushes a hand across Spot's cheek, forcing the other boy to meet his gaze. "Maybe it's the universe's way of sayin' you been punished enough?" he suggests softly.

It's like something shatters to pieces behind Spot's eyes, a wall of pain and resistance suddenly dissolving into dust. A shaking hand cups the back of Race's neck and drags him down into a kiss that the taller boy is only too happy to return. Whatever was holding Spot back before is gone now, and he throws himself into the kiss with renewed fervor. The hand on Race's neck slips up into his hair, coarse fingers weaving into curls, and Race bucks his hips with a low groan.

"Shit, Race," Spot gasps, fingertips digging into Race's waist. Race pushes back against the grip, rolling his hips again in search of friction. Spot shoves back, giving a noise that's halfway to a growl, and the force of it makes the concrete wall bite into Race's spine. As much as Race doesn't want to put the brakes on their little adventure, he's also not looking forward to being ground into the gravel if this keeps heading the direction he hopes it is.

"Spot," Race says. Since he's pulled his lips free, Spot seems to take that as an invitation to attack the rest of him, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the column of Race's throat. Race's eyes roll up, and he clings to Spot's shoulders when his knees waver under him, suddenly grateful for the support of the half-wall at his back. "Fuck, Spot, wait," Race moans. The other boy promptly freezes and starts to pull away. "No, wait, not like that," Race says, tightening his grip when Spot tries to step back. "Didn't mean like that. Just - maybe let's go inside?"

Spot looks up, eyes widening in comprehension, and a quick flash of nerves follows immediately after. "Yeah?"

"Unless ya wanna give the neighbors a show," Race responds with a smirk. "Which, I mean, I'll try anythin' once but..."

"Pervert," Spot teases playfully. Race laughs, shrugging unrepentantly, but when he tilts his weight up off the wall, the shorter boy steps back to let him stand. Threading their hands together, Race tugs Spot toward the door. It takes them a couple of minutes to get down the stairs to Spot's room, stopping every few steps when one drags the other back in for a kiss. By the time the bedroom door shuts behind them, Race is breathless and dizzy.

Of course, when Race reaches for Spot, he sees that the other boy's gone tense and uncertain again. "Spotty?" Race asks. "Hey, we don't gotta do nothin' if you don't wanna. S'fine, if you're scared or somethin'-"

"Ain't scared," Spot replies, bristling, and Race chuckles at the predictable reaction. Spot rubs the back of his neck before he continues, "Just - I dunno _how_ \- I mean, I've never, ya know-" He trails off, gesturing pointedly between them at hip level.

Race's eyes suddenly widen in understanding, and he nods. "Right, yeah, course," he says. He ducks in to kiss Spot, softer than any of the others they've exchanged tonight. "S'okay, we don't gotta do that tonight. Shouldn't, ach'lly, with my audition comin'. Don't wanna be that kinda sore. But there's still plenty kinds of fun we can have, if you wanna." Looking a little dazed, Spot bites his lip but nods. Race frowns and cups his cheek, waiting for Spot to meet his eyes again. "Hey, you trust me?"

"Course," Spot agrees immediately, and the complete lack of hesitation makes Race's heart turn over in his chest. Spot lifts a hand to cradle the one over his cheek, the gesture almost tender in contrast to the feverish touches of before.

Nodding, Race swallows. "We'll just sorta play it by ear then, yeah? We don't gotta do anythin' you ain't ready for, can stop whenever. Promise I won't be dis'pointed, I'm totally good with just kissin' ya all night if you wanna. Just - tell me if you don't like somethin' or you ain't feelin' it, 'kay?" Race says and then pulls Spot in for another kiss.

As much as the liquid heat curling in his gut wants Race to pick up the pace, he keeps his movements slow and careful, waiting for the tension to bleed out of Spot's shoulders. It doesn't take long for the fire to start building again, grips less gentle and kisses deepening as the weeks of tension and stolen glances boil to a head. Race slips a hand beneath the hem of Spot's stupid sleeveless top, tracing his fingers along the rippled burn scars at his waist. Spot shivers under his touch, sucking in a sharp breath.

A lifetime on the stage has left Race blissfully unselfconscious about baring his body in front of people - wearing spandex while going through puberty kills that shame real fast - but still, he can't help a small blush as he tugs his shirt over his head this time. Spot's eyes are wide and awed, that same attentive focus he always wears around Race. He coasts his hands softly along the sweep of Race's ribs and the flat stretch of his stomach like he's afraid to break him. Then he scrapes the coarse pad of a thumb over one of Race's nipples; the bolt of pleasure makes the blond gasp, leaning into Spot in pursuit of more. " _Me scopare._ "

"Jesus, Racer, youse so pretty," Spot rumbles against his lips, fingers moving to trace the rise and fall of Race's spine. "How's you even real?"

Race groans when Spot nips at the edge of his jaw, fingertips ghosting along the waistband of his pants. "Ya keep that up, I'mma get _real_ real on ya fast," he warns with a huff. He's aware as soon as he says it that it doesn't make much sense, but it's hard to really care while his brain's given over the reins. So Race just smirks in response to Spot's soft chuckle at the ineloquence. Pivoting them sharply, Race shoves Spot until he sits heavily on the edge of the mattress, and then climbs up to straddle his lap. This position settles their hips together so much better, and Race drops his head back when he grinds down against the responding pressure. "Fuck, Spot."

"Sean."

Race's head snaps up, glancing down in surprise at the breathless whisper. "What?"

Although his pupils are blown wide, the green irises nearly invisible between the fathomless black and the scarlet of the permanently ruptured vessels, there's a hesitancy in Spot's eyes when he gazes back. The shorter boy licks his lips and says, "S'my real name. Sean."

"Sean," Race repeats, tasting the word thoughtfully. He knows the significance of this, knows that this is Spot letting down some final barrier, but he can't stop himself from saying, "I kinda prefer Spot, honestly."

Spot laughs, the tension washing out of his face like a retreating tide to leave a warm smile in its wake. "Me too," he agrees before reclaiming Race's mouth for his own. 

* * *

Letting out a contented sigh, Race sinks back into the bed as the satisfied afterglow sweeps over him. His brain is mostly full of static, and his muscles feel a bit like gelatin, but it doesn't take much effort to summon up a bleary smile. "Fuck that was good," he murmurs.

Sprawled on his back beside him, Spot snorts and the corner of his mouth ticks up. "Fo'sure," he agrees. The combination of arousal and now exhaustion has made his voice slip down a half-octave into a ragged growl that Race decides he really,  _really_ likes. Then Spot nudges him with an elbow and smirks. "Still gotta get a translator one'a these days. Got no idea half what you was sayin' there at the end."

Race giggles, ears going slightly pink as he thinks back over it. "Nothin' you'd wanna repeat in respectable comp'ny," he admits, glancing sideways to flash an impish grin at the other boy.

"Well shit, now I _really_ wanna know," Spot says with a soft chuff of laughter. "But the Italian is kinda hot."

"Knew I was growin' on ya, _mi piccolo punto_ ," he teases. Spot scoffs and rolls his eyes at the nickname, but the lines of a smile haven't faded from the corner of his eye. 

Grinning smugly, Race turns onto his side to face Spot better. Race pans his gaze across the other boy's profile fondly; the hard square of his jaw, the pale purple lightning-burst scar, the glint of silver at his brow. "Ya know, some'a these are kinda pretty," he says, tracing a finger along the looping rune on the side of his neck. Spot snorts again. "No, seriously," Race says insistently. "Like this one, it's a bit like a cursive G, but with an extra swoop. And this one," hand drifting to another behind his ear, "huh, it kinda looks like the elf writing from Lord of the Rings, ach'lly."

"That's intensely nerdy," Spot remarks dryly.

"Oh shaddup, you're the one's actually read all those books," Race replies. "If either of us is a nerd, it's you." Spot chuckles but doesn't deny it, which Race claims as a victory. He shoves up onto an elbow to see better, and his hand slides to one of the curling tattoos on Spot's collarbone. "And this one sorta looks like vines, like those ones you see climbin' over old buildings," he continues, following the spirals of pencil-thin black lines. "You should like that with your green thumb thing."

Spot swats at him half-heartedly. "Great, m'glad youse havin' fun makin' cloud-shapes outta my scars," he drawls.

"Just sayin'," Race states, shrugging. "You might not like 'em, and maybe they didn't come from a good thing, but they're still pretty too. Ya know, bad things don't gotta be _all_ bad." Spot gives him an amused look and Race can see the sarcastic comment coming from a mile away. "Shaddup, I know that was kinda fortune cookie," Race talks over him, and Spot dissolves into quiet laughter.

He looks soft and relaxed in a way he so rarely does, and it warms Race from the inside. Just because he can now, he ducks in to steal a lazy kiss. Race grins in satisfaction when he pulls back enough to see Spot's small, affectionate smile. Then something catches Race's attention; he reaches out to brush a fingertip along Spot's cheekbone and the solitary black dot there. "You only got one now."

Spot hums in acknowledgment, his gaze dropping to Race's chin. "Less 'an a month now. Twenty-two days," he says almost distractedly.

Race lifts an eyebrow in surprise and draws back to be able to see Spot's whole face. "Is that what it is?" he asks curiously. "Some sorta countdown thing?"

"To my birthday," Spot says with a shallow nod. "One a month."

Rolling that information over in his head, Race combs back through his memories. It's true, now that he thinks about it, that there was around a month gap between each of the dot's disappearances, give or take the couple days it took Race to notice. He remembers Spot telling him that day with the cannolis that he started out with twelve dots. Twelve dots for twelve months. One year that ends on his eighteenth birthday.

"So what happens when they're all gone?" Race asks, a pit forming in his stomach.

Spot grimaces but doesn't answer, which is somehow all of the confirmation that Race needs. Their conversation from the roof comes back to him in startling detail, the panicked desperation and frustration in Spot's voice. Despite the cold terror that spills down his spine, Race sets his jaw. "No," he says flatly. Spot finally meets his eyes again, arching an eyebrow in question. "No, I ain't lettin' it happen."

"Ya don't even know whatcha messin' in," Spot says with a wry look.

"Don't care," Race says. "Don't care if it's your dad or some stupid magic witch. We're gonna figure this out. There's gotta be somethin' else." Spot gives a humorless laugh, but it cuts off when Race grabs his hand, lacing their fingers together. "I mean it, Spotty," he says, holding Spot's gaze. "I'm not just gonna sit back and letcha go. Fuck that."

Spot's lips quiver and he shakes his head. "All youse gonna do is getcha'self hurt if you go pokin'," he says, his grip on Race's hand tightening almost painfully. "Toldja before, these sorta folks, they don't got a problem hurtin' others to make a point. If they hurt you - fuck, that'd kill me worse than anythin'."

"Well too fuckin' bad for you," Race snaps. "'Cause that goes both ways, pal. You ain't the only one got somethin' to lose now." And the reality of that statement hits Race square in the chest as soon as it leaves his mouth; for all his plans of getting as far away from New York as possible, for all his talk of not wanting any attachments to hold him back, he went and let this stupid idiot sneak under his defenses. There's something here for him now, something worth coming back to New York for at the end of the tour. Something worth _keeping_ , that he _wants_ to keep.

"Racer," Spot starts, a sort of weary resignation in his tone, but he never gets to finish the sentence because Race kisses him fiercely. He keeps their lips together until Spot gives up trying to say anything, and then a minute longer just to be sure. When he finally pulls back, they're both gasping for air a bit dazedly.

"Stop arguing with me," Race says. "Now move your arm outta the way, I'm tired."

Spot eyes him dubiously. "Ugh, youse a cuddler?"

"You bet your unfairly firm ass I am," Race replies, which manages to surprise a laugh out of Spot before he can stop himself. "I been waiting weeks to get my hands on these muscles, you ain't gettin' away so easy." Although Spot grouses and grumbles, he lets Race wrap himself around Spot's side, nestling his head on Spot's shoulder and tangling their legs together. Spot tugs the covers over them and then takes Race's hand, resting on his stomach, again to rub his thumb along Race's knuckles.

It's late into the night at this point, and it doesn't take long for Spot's breathing to even out, his grip on Race's hand going lax in sleep. Race smiles blearily and nuzzles his cheek into Spot's shoulder, a wash of warm affection rolling over him when Spot hums without waking up. "I ain't letting you go, Spotty," Race murmurs against his skin, already more than halfway to sleep himself. "We gonna figure it. Ain't losin' no one I love 'gain."

And as Spot's arm shifts, pulling Race more securely against his side, Race drifts off to the sound of a slow, steady heartbeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've been trying really hard to keep ahead of the posts with my writing but a combination of being sick & a death in the family has severely cut into my writing time. With posting this chapter, you guys are officially caught up to me. I'm going to try very hard to get the next chapter written and posted on time, but I just wanted to let you all know that there's a possibility that the next chapter might wind up a little delayed. Thanks, as always, for your support & understanding. You guys are the greatest.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the snafu if any of you are subbed and got the notification about an update last night that then disappeared... I was trying to get the chapter edited so I'd be able to hop on and post it before work today, and I accidentally posted it mid-edits. 
> 
> That said, this was edited while sleep-deprived (clearly) so please forgive any glaring mistakes.

Consciousness comes back to him in slow drags. The first thing Race is really aware of is warmth, the heat cocooned snugly around him where he's curled up. There's a pleasant languidness in his muscles, and he's wrapped in a familiar earthy scent that makes his heart hum. A sleepy smile crosses his face as the memories come back and Race stretches, reaching a hand imploringly across the mattress.

Except the place beside him is empty.

"Spot?" Race mumbles blearily, blinking the sleep from his eyes to confirm that he's alone in the bed.

"M'over here," Spot responds from behind him. Race rolls onto his back so he can see Spot sitting at his desk on the other side of the room, wearing only his boxers and typing at his laptop.

"Whatcha doin'?" Race asks curiously. It's still dark beyond the edges of the curtains, not yet morning, but Spot looks like he's been up a while.

"Just workin' on somethin'," Spot says without turning around. "Still early, Race, go back to sleep. S'fine."

Although the idea is tempting, his curiosity is stronger. Race stretches and retrieves his briefs from where they were abandoned on the floor last night. Crossing the room, Race firmly inserts himself between Spot and the laptop by straddling his lap. Race drops his arms on Spot's shoulders, deliberately ignoring the shorter boy's annoyed huff, and grins down at him. "Hi."

"I was workin' on that," Spot replies but the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes betray his amusement. "Youse in the way."

"That's kinda the point," Race says and then ducks in to kiss Spot. The other boy groans, tipping his head to deepen the kiss, and his hands settle warm and heavy on Race's hips. "Was feelin' ignored," Race teases when they finally part for air. "You leavin' me to sleep by myself. Whatcha doin' that's more important?"

Spot snorts a laugh, his forehead resting against Race's collarbone. "Just don't sleep great," he admits. "Didn't wanna wake ya. And, I dunno, wasn't sure-" He trails off, shaking his head, and his thumbs trace back and forth over Race's hipbones. "Well, figure my face ain't so nice to wake up to."

"Hey." Scowling, Race tips the other boy's chin up and leans back to meet his gaze. "Don't do that, Spot," he says firmly. "You know it's not like that with me. So stop bein' a drama queen." That drags a laugh out of Spot, his expression softening, and he comes along eagerly when Race pulls him in for another kiss. "I didn't up and change my mind overnight," Race says. "You?"

"Fuck, Race, it ain't that easy," Spot groans out and there's something in his tone that sounds like regret.

Race feels his heart hammer against his ribs painfully, and he can't completely stop himself from flinching back slightly despite his best efforts to remain nonchalant. "It's sorta a yes or no question," Race responds, and he sees Spot's face fall at the faint bite of sharpness in his tone. So much for acting indifferent...

Leaning back, Race starts to draw his arms away, but Spot hastily grabs a hand and clutches it against his cheek. "Course I want this," the shorter boy says, voice heavy but gaze determined. "Want _you_ , Racer. More'an I've ever fuckin' wanted somethin' in my life." He sighs and seems to deflate with it, tipping his face into Race's palm. "But that don't make what I was sayin' last night less true."

The words soothe Race even as they stir the embers of anger back to life in his gut. "Doesn't change what I said either," he says, brushing his thumb against Spot's cheekbone over the single black dot. "As long as you still want this too, we'll figure it out."

"Ya got no idea whatcha even talking 'bout," Spot counters wearily.

"Pretty sure I'm talkin' 'bout not letting my best friend get murdered," Race says, eyes narrowing. "I don't care what we gotta do, even if we gotta go to the cops. We tell them what's goin' on, they gotta protect ya, right?"

Spot lets out a breathless, desperate noise. "I go to the cops, you know what happens? I go to prison. Not like I got a clean criminal hist'ry, remember? And prison's just as dangerous as out here for a guy like me. Got plenty of guys from rival groups on the inside that'd love to take out a li'l revenge on me."

"But if they know that," Race argues, "if the cops know that you'd be in danger, they'd protect you, right? Keep you separate from them or somethin'?"

"Sure, maybe," Spot agrees. "So best option, I get fifty years in solitary. Maybe less for good behavior. Yay me. But more likely, my old man got cops and judges and guards on his payroll, and I guarantee somewhere 'tween here and my padded cell, there's some sorta mysterious accident where I don't survive."

Race growls and drags a hand through his hair. "Then we run," he says. "We get the fuck outta New York to somewhere he can't getcha. We move to the other fuckin' coast, or to another _country_ if we gotta."

"And let you give up on everythin' you been workin' for here?" Spot replies sadly. "Your audition? Your dream job? No fuckin' way."

"I can dance anywhere," Race says, throwing up his hands in exasperation. "There's a million dance comp'nies all over the world, I don't gotta dance for ABT. Not like this job's even a shoo-in." Spot gives him a dry look that shows he's not going to even humor that argument. "Well what's your fuckin' genius plan then?" Race challenges furiously. "You just gonna roll over and let him win?"

Spot's lips twist, his gaze appraising for a second like he's deciding whether to answer. "Been plannin' to take him down with me, ach'lly," he admits.

"Like what, some sorta kamikaze, old west shootout thing?" Race asks, skeptical.

"Don't be stupid," Spot says, rolling his eyes. He licks his lips and then glances pointedly around Race toward the laptop screen. "Youse gonna have to move if ya wanna see, though."

Glancing over his shoulder, Race makes a noise of comprehension. "You mean you're finally gonna tell me what super-secret project you've been workin' on all summer?" he asks. He obligingly stands and moves behind the chair, leaning in over Spot's shoulder to see.

"Little longer than that, ach'lly," Spot says. "Started 'bout the first of the year." He taps the trackpad to bring the computer out of screensaver, and opens a folder on the desktop titled 'masterfile.' Inside are dozens upon dozens of subfolders, all of them labeled with dates, going back a couple years, as far as Race can tell. "My criminal hist'ry," Spot announces, gesturing to the files.

"Wait, what?" Race asks in surprise, gaze panning over the meticulously organized folders.

"That's what I been workin' on all year," Spot says. "It's a confession, sorta. Ev'rything I can rememba; ev'ry job I ever done and who I was with and what we done. And then I got more that's just stuff 'bout my old man's crew. Neva met ev'ryone, obviously, but I put together lists of all the guys I know work for him, all the businesses he uses for hidin' shady stuff, all the folks I know he been blackmailin'. Ev'ry big job I know they been involved in and the couple I know they's still plannin'. Anythin' and ev'rythin' I could think of that cops could use 'gainst him, all the shit the old man's scared of me tellin'."

Race's eyes scour over the endless lines of folders, and his brain is buzzing as he attempts to process. " _Dio mio_."

Spot swallows audibly, twisting his hands in his lap. "Whole thing's set to upload to a private police server I hacked," he explains. "Built a backdoor in, they won't even know it's there 'til it uploads. Goes live day before my birthday. And I gotta backup drive too, gonna give to Jack, just in case. That way, don't matter what the old man does to me, folks is gonna know what he done. 'Cause I figure, this," he touches the silver dashes at his eyebrow, "might'a been to punish me, but it ain't done nothin' to get justice for all those people I hurt. This might."

"This's incredible," Race breathes, awed. "Seriously, Spot, it's amazing. But what 'bout you?"

"What 'bout me?" Spot repeats, shrugging. "Was just tryna even the scales a bit. There ain't justice for the bad guys."

The loud, derisive noise Race makes seems to startle Spot, but not as much as his scowl. "Oh drop the angsty self-hate shit, wouldja?" the blond says sharply. "Like you ain't a victim in this shit too. Even if you're almost eighteen, you're still a kid, Spot. Fuck, dates on some this stuff, you were _young_. It's not like you had a ton of choice in all this, right? You were raised that way."

"That don't make it okay," Spot says, folding his arms defensively.

"Didn't say it did," Race counters. "But you takin' all the blame for this shit ain't okay either. Never knew better, if that's all you were ever 'round. It's like ya said, you never thought nothin' about it because you were just doin' your job the way you were raised to. And you're better than all of them other folks because you care. You learned that whatcha was doin' was wrong, and you've changed, and you've been tryna fix it."

Spot exhales heavily, his eyes cutting away. "On'y so much can be fixed though," he points out.

"Just like only some what was done to _you_ can be fixed too," says Race. Crouching at Spot's side, he sets a hand on the boy's tensed arm. "You might not think you're worth savin', but that ain't gonna stop me from tryin'." 

When Spot doesn't respond, Race nods decisively. "So we use this to get 'em to make a deal with ya," he says, waving a hand toward the laptop. Spot finally glances up curiously. "That's a thing they do, right? Cut deals if ya flip on someone higher up the list than you? This much stuff, they gotta wanna get their hands on that enough to go easy on you, make sure you're safe from your dad's people."

"I'll still end up in jail," Spot says tiredly. "Bein' friends with a felon ain't gonna be good for your career."

Race snorts. "Not any worse than havin' a druggie ma," he says. "And bein' a dancer ain't like bein' a movie star, no one really gives a fuck who you are off-stage. 'Sides, I don't care what folks say, Spot. I know who you really are, and I like that guy. Want the chance to _keep_ likin' that guy. And you know I'm good at gettin' what I want." The faintest hint of a smile twitches the corner of Spot's lips, a softening to his features. When Race slides his hand along Spot's arm to his wrist, the other boy instantly turns his hand to thread their fingers together. "Please, Spot," Race says, squeezing his hand. "Promise me we gonna try."

Exhaling slowly, Spot folds his other hand around Race's and leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. His fingertips trace warm patterns along Race's knuckles, and even as he seems to hunch in on himself, he manages a small smile. "Ya know I'm no good at sayin' no to you," he says and it sounds more fond than grudging.

"So don't," Race responds, and he can't completely stop the sly smile that creeps out at that.

Spot huffs a laugh. "Fine, okay, we'll try," he agrees. "But we gotta be smart 'bout it, 'kay? You gotta follow my lead on this, keep things quiet, 'cause if the old man catches wind, gonna be all our heads, and I won't let none you guys get hurt for me. And if things get dicey and I tell ya to get outta dodge, you do. Got me?" He clearly sees the argument on Race's tongue because his glare hardens slightly and he talks over him, "Hey, work with me here, Racer. Compromise. I'mma try this for you, so you gotta do this for me, 'kay?"

"Fine," Race says because he can tell that this isn't a fight he'll win. "But I'm not just leavin' ya either. We'll get with Jack, figure somethin', okay? He was a cop, he's gotta know somethin' 'bout how to work these things. 'Cause ya know he's gonna wanna help too."

"Stubborn bastard," Spot mumbles under his breath, although Race can't be sure whether it's directed at him or Jack. Then Spot sits up and drags a hand down his face. "Oh, speakin' of Jack," he starts, "that's another thing I wanna show ya. Just in case somethin' happens to me, so you can give it to Jack, 'kay?"

"Not lettin' something happen to you," Race reiterates, causing Spot to snort. "But okay." He sits up on his knees as Spot closes out the folder on his laptop and then opens another one titled 'jack.' It's filled with a dozen or so saved PDFs, all labeled with complicated strings of numbers, along with a handful of text documents. The one at the top of the list is labeled 'Kelly Case Report.'

"Is this all about Jack?" Race asks, awed.

Spot nods. "I been lookin' into his case," he says. "Goin' over what they got 'gainst him, ya know? It's a weak case, honestly. Be pretty easy to get it overturned if he got a decent lawyer, which he'll be able to 'fford after he gets paid for this job. Found plenty'a legal precedents and all," he highlights the string of PDFs, and Race realizes the numbers must be law codes and court case numbers, "similar cases that ruled in the officer's favor. Been puttin' it all together, writin' up a case file and stuff," he clicks into the top document, which is a typed up report divided into bulleted paragraphs, "so all Jack gotta do is take it to a lawyer and they can do the rest."

"Holy shit," Race says breathlessly. He skims the report but it's ninety-percent legal jargon that goes straight over his head, heavily notated and citing an endless stream of state and federal law codes. "Spot, this is so crazy. You did all this by yourself?"

"Know a thing or two 'bout laws," the other responds, shrugging. "Mostly 'bout how to get 'round 'em. One'a the few perks of growin' up a criminal; learned a lot 'bout how the system works so we could get 'round it without gettin' in trouble. But this stuff here's all legit. Might not be 'nough to get his job back, but least it should get the charges dismissed so he can go back to havin' a normal life."

Race pans his gaze down the list of files again in amazement. "That's - Spot, that's incredible," he says. "Doin' all that for Jack. _You're_ incredible."

Huffing, Spot ducks his head. "Ain't that big a deal," he says dismissively. "Figured I kinda owe him, after he been puttin' up with me all year. 'Cause it's like you said, he's a good guy, and he don't deserve to have his whole life messed up just 'cause he did somethin' stupid. Can't even ach'lly prove he did the stupid thing, honestly, after lookin' through the files. All looked pretty circumstantial to me, at least what's been released as public information."

"No, I mean it," Race says insistently. "I can't believe you even understand this stuff. I've never even _seen_ half these words before. This must've taken forever to put together."

"Not like I've had much else to do," Spot says, rubbing the back of his neck uncertainly. "I just - I dunno, wanted to try and help, ya know? Ain't fair, what happened to him. And with-" Spot pauses again, shooting a quick glance sideways to Race. "He toldja 'bout his brother before?"

Race's brow furrows. "Jack? Thought he's a foster kid?"

Nodding, Spot scratches distractedly at his wrist. "Yeah, but I guess there's one'a his li'l foster brothers he got real attached to. Cute kid, ach'lly." He clicks through a couple folders before finding and opening a picture that seems to be a screenshot from a social media page. It shows Jack with his arm around a young boy with messy blond hair who can't be more than ten at most. There are braces around the boy's knees and a set of forearm crutches on the ground next to them, but mostly Race notices how big they're both smiling. "He's got spina bifida, so he got some medical problems. Guess it got too much to handle and the foster folks turfed him back to the state. Right 'fore all the shit went down with his job, Jack was tryna adopt him."

"For real?" Race asks, stunned. He looks at the picture, takes in the pure happiness in both their smiles, and feels something tighten in his chest. "But now he can't?"

"Can't 'fford it, not havin' steady work," Spot says grimly. "And state ain't gonna give a foster kid to a guy under investigation. But I figure, if he can get the charges tossed out, maybe Jack can still get the kid, ya know? Got a way better shot of it, at least, and he'd be able to get a real job again."

Race lets out a heavy breath, all of that information settling over him. "All this, and how can you still not think you're a good person?" he asks incredulously. Spot scoffs. "I'm serious, Spotty. This stuff, all this research and shit you've done, that could completely change Jack's whole life. And not just him, but that li'l kid too. This is huge."

"Anyone could'a done it if they got the time. Lucky me, I've had a lotta free time the last year," Spot says with a dismissive shrug. "Wanted to do somethin' for him and Dave, sorta thanks for puttin' up with me, ya know?" He smirks. "But I ain't been able to figure somethin' to help Davey out, 'part from buildin' a case to sue the school districts for failin' to comply with the ADA hiring laws, but I know he won't go for that."

"He told us you tried to help him find a doctor to get his sight back," says Race.

Spot huffs. "Yeah, that was a no-go too," he says. "Guess science ain't there yet. Take magic to fix him, and only person I know can do that stuff ain't exactly friendly to me." He lets out a breath and Race surveys his face; beneath the usual mask of casual neutrality, there are shadows under his eyes and lines in his brow.

"C'mon," Race says, tugging at his hand. Spot raises an eyebrow in response. "Back to bed. That's way more than enough seriousness for before sun's even come up."

"I ain't gonna be able to go back to sleep," Spot says, shaking his head.

"Who said anythin' about sleeping?" Race replies with a smirk. "Your bed's just more comfy than that chair." Spot laughs, and he reaches out to close his laptop as Race drags him across the room. 

Race's foot bumps something and he yelps in surprise, glancing down to see his phone skittering across the floor. It must've fallen out of his pocket last night when they were undressing. "Oh yeah, should pro'lly text Ma back and let her know I ain't dead after ignorin' her last night," he says reluctantly, stooping to retrieve the phone.  

"That who was callin' ya?" Spot asks curiously. Race nods, crawling up to sit on the bed as he holds down the power button. Spot lays down next to him, idly tracing patterns on the small of Race's back, warm fingertips sending shivers up his spine. Race is seconds away from abandoning his phone in favor of reacquainting himself with Spot's abs when the phone suddenly vibrates several times in quick succession. "Someone's popular," Spot teases wryly.

Race snorts and flicks down the list of notifications. There's the expected string of missed calls and texts from his ma's number, but it's only when he gets to the bottom of the list that he pauses. A missed call from an unfamiliar number came in a few hours after his ma's stopped, and they left a voicemail. Frowning, Race taps the message and holds the phone up to his ear.

"Hello, this message is for Antonio Higgins," a woman's voice recites neutrally from the speaker. "This is Dr. Davenport from St. Mary's Hospital in Richmond. I'm calling because we have you listed as the next-of-kin for Sofia Higgins. She was brought into our emergency room about an hour ago-"

"Race?" Spot's voice is concerned, his hand steady and bracing against Race's spine, and it's only that that makes Race realize he's shaking. His knuckles are white around the phone as he clutches it, his brain scrambling to try and process the rest of the doctor's words, but he can barely hear over the pounding of his heart in his ears. "Racer, what's wrong?"

"My ma," Race whispers. It's hard to breathe through the weight in his chest, his muscles numb and stiff beneath the tremors. When he finally glances at Spot, the other boy's face creases with worry at whatever he sees. "She - she OD'd. She's at a hospital on Staten Island and I - I dunno what-" He breaks off helplessly, his voice catching in his throat.

Spot's eyebrows shoot up in shock before his expression settles into something fierce and determined. He grips Race's shoulders reassuringly and nods. "Get dressed. I'll take ya."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, you guys thought the story was almost over just because they got together? Um...Surprise!


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays! Now have a super emo chapter... Oops
> 
> TW: aftermath of drug use/overdose

Race is numb. His brain feels like it's full of static and he's barely aware of their surroundings as the motorcycle screams through the early morning traffic. He wraps his arms tighter around Spot's chest and tries to breathe around the weight inside his ribs. Distantly, a voice in his head tells him this must be shock, but he can't bring himself to care, his thoughts rushing far ahead of them to the hospital. To his ma.

His ma, who OD'd at some point during the night after Race ignored her calls.

The spike of guilt that shoots through him is bitter and sharp. Race squeezes his eyes shut and swallows down the taste of acid on the back of his tongue. What if that's why she was calling him? What if she was asking for help? What if she knew she'd taken too much and she needed him, and he'd just rejected her calls? Or, worst of all, what if she overdosed _because_ he rejected her calls?

It's exactly what he's been terrified of since that last midnight phone call from her; that she'd overdose out there wherever she's hiding and leave him all alone. Except she didn't die, someone found her. Race doesn't know who, doesn't know how she got to the hospital, just that she did. The doctor's message was vague, only informing him that she was alive but still in the hospital and that he should come if he could.

Does that mean she's still sick? The last time she overdosed, they'd been able to pump her stomach, and she was released that same day. It's been hours, and she's still there, so _why_? Weren't they able to help her this time? There are so many things that can happen from an overdose - Race made the mistake of Googling it that first time, to try and prepare himself in case, but all it'd done was make him sick. Her organs could be shutting down. She could be brain damaged. She could be in a coma.

Just because she wasn't dead when the doctor called doesn't mean it can't still happen.

Race doesn't realize he's started crying until his next breath shudders into his chest. He can't wipe his eyes with the helmet on, so he settles for fisting his shaking hands in the front of Spot's jacket. A second later, a leather-clad hand brushes over his wrist in a soothing gesture before it jumps back to the handlebars.

It's only the feel of the bike slowing as it turns into the parking structure that draws Race out of his spiraling thoughts. Spot squeezes them into a narrow parking spot and shuts off the engine. Race's legs are wobbling as he gets off the motorcycle and he has to grab Spot's shoulder with one hand while the other fumbles the buckle on his helmet. By the time he gets it off, Spot's removed his own helmet and tugged the hood of his jacket up over his head.

"Hey," Spot says softly, and he steps closer. Reaching up, he wipes the tears from Race's cheeks with the back of his hand, still wrapped in the warm leather of his riding gloves. "You gonna be okay?" Race finds his voice stuck in his throat, so he just nods. Spot's smile is sad, but he holds out a hand and Race takes it gratefully.

They half-sprint across the parking structure and into the front doors of the hospital. The lobby is full of bodies, doctors and patients and visitors alike bustling in every direction. Spot keeps his head down, definitely concerned about being seen, but he doesn't leave Race's side as they weave across to the large front desk. A bored-looking receptionist glances up with a robotic, "Can I help you?"

"I'm looking for Sofia Higgins," says Race, thankful for Spot's steady presence at his side as his knees quiver under him. "She was brought into the ER last night."

"Date of birth?" the receptionist asks, the keys of her computer clacking loudly when Race recites his mother's birthday. She hums, clicking through a few screens as Race's nerves ratchet higher, and then she finally lifts her gaze again with a sad furrow between her brows. "What's your relation?"

"She's my mom," Race answers.

The woman nods. "I just had to check. The ICU is immediate family visits only," she says, and Race feels the bottom of his stomach drop out. Then her gaze darts to Spot's bowed head pointedly.

"He's with me," Race says frantically, gripping Spot's hand tighter. She can't make him leave. Race can't do this alone.

"Family only," the receptionist repeats, sympathetic but stern.

"Hey, it's okay," Spot says, turning his back on the desk and looking up at Race from beneath the rim of his hood. "I'm gonna go call Jack and Davey, let 'em know where we's at. I'll be here if ya need me, 'kay?" Race's heart is pounding, tears smarting at the corners of his eyes again. Spot sweeps a thumb under his eye and rises up onto his toes to kiss Race, nothing more than a gentle press of lips. "All ya gotta do is call, I'll be right here," Spot promises quietly. "Youse gonna be okay."

When Race manages a shaky nod, Spot slips his hand free. He casts a quick glance over his shoulder at the receptionist - and Race sees her eyes widen as she catches a glimpse of the visible portion of Spot's face - and then the shorter boy starts back toward the doors with his head down. Fighting not to be sick, Race looks hopefully at the receptionist. "Can I see her?"

"Of course," she says. She points toward a row of elevators. "Third floor. The nurses up there will be able to show you to the right room."

Race jerks his head in what he hopes is a nod and heads for the elevators. His stomach is churning, and he can't stop fidgeting, watching the numbers above the doors count their way up to the third floor. Stepping out, there's another long desk in front of the doors, and he walks straight to them. "I'm looking for Sofia Higgins," he says breathlessly. "Please, she's my ma."

The nurse turns immediately to her computer, but before she can start typing, a slender black woman in a lab coat straightens up curiously. "Are you Antonio?" she asks. Race nods eagerly. "I'm Dr. Davenport," the doctor introduces, stepping around the desk to offer a hand, and Race recognizes the name from the voicemail. She's short, her tightly-curled black hair shaved close to her skull, but her face is kind as she places a guiding hand on his arm. "Come with me."

"Is she okay?" Race asks instantly, falling into step with the doctor. She leads him to a set of heavy doors, where she swipes an ID card that makes the doors glide open. The hospital ward on the other side is divided into rooms, and there's an oppressive hush in the air, broken only by beeping machines and soft voices.

"It was a close call," Dr. Davenport says, "but it looks like she's going to pull through. She was awake for a bit earlier. She asked about you." Race's heart leaps; that kind of awareness has got to be a good sign, right? The doctor steers him to a door that's half-open, and Race's steps falter slightly. Taking a deep breath, he squares his shoulders and moves into the hospital room.

His ma is asleep in the bed, and the sight of her sunken, pale face sends the nausea curling in his gut spinning again. She looks impossibly thin and small in the paper gown, her long blonde hair a tangled wave over one shoulder. There are tubes and wires everywhere, connecting her to an IV stand and a breathing machine and a heart monitor.

It's too much like the last time Race saw his father, the usually boisterous man frail and pallid in a hospital bed as the sickness ravaged his body, and his head reels.

"Ma," Race exhales weakly, his eyes stinging again. He shuffles anxiously closer to the bed, hands trembling as he grasps the railing at the side until his knuckles bleach white. There are heavy shadows under her closed eyes, charcoal smudges on her sallow skin. A bulky plastic mask is strapped over her mouth and nose, the insides steaming over with every puff of air from the machine beside the bed.

"It was close, but they got to her in time," Dr. Davenport says gently. "The EMTs got her some naloxone to counter the overdose. We've been flushing her system, and we've got most of the drugs out now. She had some fluid in her lungs, and she was showing signs of early-stage pneumonia, so we've given her some antibiotics as well. We're going to keep her here until we're sure she can breathe on her own again. As long as everything goes well, we should be able to move her out to the main ward in a day or two."

Race feels the information go in one ear and out the other without much impact, his fuzzy brain only really grasping at one detail: she's going to survive. It's a weight off his chest, and he takes an overcompensating breath. "Which - which one was it?" he asks, not sure he wants to hear the answer. The doctor hums questioningly. "The drugs. Was - it was heroin, right?"

Grimacing, Dr. Davenport looks down at her clipboard. "It was," she agrees, and Race winces. Heroin is the sad day drug, the one she takes when she's depressed and wants to forget everything. "I take it you're aware that this is not a recent habit, then?"

Race nods, reaching out and settling his hand on his ma's arm above the blanket, eyeing the scattered bruising and the stark white bandages around her elbows. "Who found her?"

"She called 911, actually," the doctor says. Race looks over at her in surprise. "She managed to tell them where she was before she stopped breathing. We've given her methadone to lessen the withdrawals for now, but we'll need to talk about more long-term options when she's awake." Dr. Davenport seems to hesitate for a second. "Are you okay, Antonio?"

"Me? Yeah, I'm fine," he says. It takes him a second longer to recognize what she's _really_ asking; why he wasn't there with her, why he knows about her habit but hasn't gotten help, what it means for him at home. All the questions that the cops and paramedics were asking that first time when Child Protective Services threatened to take him away. "I'm good, thanks," he says, dredging up what he hopes is a convincing smile. "Really. Just glad she's gonna be okay. Thanks, doc."

The doctor clears her throat. "If you need anything, just ask one of the nurses to page me," she says, then she touches his shoulder reassuringly before leaving the room.

Race pulls the plastic chair up to the side of the bed and sits down on auto-pilot. He cradles his mother's hand in both of his, and the haze of shock dissipates into a choking fear. The tears swell in his eyes despite his attempts to hold them back. " _Dispiace_ ," he gasps out. "I'm sorry. I'm _so_ sorry. I never should'a ignored ya. I didn't mean it, I didn't know. I can't - _cazzo_ , Mamma, I can't lose you, _per favore_. Please."

The sobs take control at that point, strangling the rest of the words from his throat, and he bows over her side as he cries. Panic and fear and regret wash over him in waves. All he can do is cling to her hand and send up prayers to a God he stopped believing in a long time ago, gratitude that she's still alive and pleas for her to recover.

He has no idea how much time has passed before he manages to catch his breath again, and Race dries his face on the collar of his shirt. Digging out his phone, he sees a text from Spot in his notifications and he types a reply.

 

Spot's response comes almost immediately, which tells Race he's probably been waiting for an answer and watching his phone.

After sending a quick thanks back, Race tucks his phone away again. He wraps his hands around his mother's, tracing the lines of her knuckles and age-old scars with a fingernail to distract himself. There wasn't much time for sitting and waiting with his father in the hospital; the late-stage cancer was so advanced, Pa'd barely lasted a week after admission before his body gave out. It resonates in Race's chest, the relief that she's alive battling against his hatred of this listless _waiting_ , his instinct to be moving and doing something flailing helplessly.

There's nothing he _can_ do, nothing that will make her heal faster, and it's agony.

Propping his elbows on the edge of the bed, Race sets his chin in one hand to wait. Time crawls by in drags, seconds blurring into each other as the movement outside continues. At one point the air is split by the harsh shrill of a flat-line in a nearby room, and there's a clamor of voices and steps as doctors and nurses rush toward it. Race feels a morbid curiosity spark, wondering what's happening, but he doesn't want to leave his ma's side.

Race doesn't realize he's nodded off until the hand in his shifts and the motion jerks him awake. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he lifts his gaze and meets a pair of watery blue eyes so much like his own. "Ma?" he asks, sitting up.

"'Tone," she slurs hoarsely, her voice muffled through the breathing mask. Ma frowns and lifts her free hand to paw at the mask in frustration, and Race jumps up to still her hand.

"No, Mamma, you gotta leave it 'lone," he says, dragging her hand away from her face. "You're okay, but the doc said you need that to help you breathe." Race perches on the edge of the bed and reaches up to comb a bit of loose hair from her forehead, the long blonde waves dirty and knotted. "You okay? You hurt? I can grab the doc if you need," but she cuts him off by tightening her grip on his hand.

"Tony," she rasps, lifting his hand to press against her cheek. " _Sei qui?_ "

"I'm here," Race agrees and feels his voice stick in his throat, both at the disbelieving question and the fact it's in Italian. That was always Pa's language, the one reserved for happy memories from before, but he finds himself slipping back into it with the comfort of a favorite sweater. "Course I came. You're my mom." A tear rolls down her cheek and Race knows he'd be crying too if he had any tears left. "You scared me, Ma," he says, lips quivering. "Thought I was gonna lose you. Please, you gotta be okay. I can't lose you too. I don't wanna be alone."

Any sense of composure shatters apart for them both. Ma's sob is stifled behind the mask, and when she opens her arms, Race collapses against her chest without a second thought. She threads a hand into his curls, cradling his head above her heart as they both break down. It takes Race a minute to realize that she's whispering something, her voice barely audible over the constant puff and whoosh of the breathing machine, and when he finally catches the words, it breaks his heart all over again.

" _Dispiace...ti amo...perdonami..."_

_I'm sorry...I love you...Forgive me..._

Four words repeated over and over and over, a breathless loop until she descends into a fit of damp coughing. Race sits up, hands fluttering uselessly, as she steadies her breathing again. "You need to rest, Mamma," he says, gently wiping the tears from her cheeks. Her red-rimmed eyes are more than half-lidded, the exhaustion heavy in her features, and he can tell it's only pure stubbornness keeping them open. "We'll deal with everything else later. Right now, you need to rest and get better, okay?"

"Tony," she says again, and there's a hint of plaintiveness in it this time as she grasps his hand.

"I'm gonna stay," Race assures her and sees some of the lines ease from her face. "Get some sleep. I might go out and get somethin' to eat, but I'll be here when you wake up. Promise." Her eyes flutter as she slowly loses the battle with fatigue. Leaning in, Race kisses her forehead. " _Ti amo_ , Mamma."

Race sits with her as her breathing evens and slows, and it's only a matter of minutes before her hand loosens in his grip. After a long enough time that he can be sure she's really asleep, Race lets out a tired breath. He's going crazy from sitting still so long, and he really should eat something in the near future. There's really only one thing on his mind at the moment, though.

Stopping only to make sure that the ICU nurses will let him back in when he comes back, Race jumps in the elevator and rides down to the lobby. He pulls out his phone as he starts walking for the doors, but he barely has time to unlock the screen before a quick, "Racer?" makes him look up. Still wearing his leather jacket with the hood pulled up, Spot shoves himself up from a chair in the waiting room and strides over in hasty steps.

"You're still here," Race says, surprised.

Below the rim of the hood, Spot's lips twitch into a faint smile. "Toldja I'd be here if ya needed," he responds softly. Of course, even as he says it, it's clear how uncomfortable Spot is in the busy room, hunched in on himself. Race knows it's probably the longest time Spot's spent out in public in the last year, at least off his bike, and his anxiety is visible in the way he keeps his head down and steals glances around the room beneath his hood.

"I need air," Race says decisively. "Come keep me comp'ny?" Spot nods and Race feels a hand settle warm and protective in the small of his back as he turns for the front doors. Race leads the way out of the lobby and around the side of the building until he finds an empty bench half-shaded from the morning sun. Flopping down dramatically, Race drops his head against the back of the bench with a sigh.

"You okay?" Spot asks as he sits down next to him.

"Ma's gonna be okay," Race agrees with a nod. He shifts so that his head tips onto Spot's shoulder, making the other boy huff in amusement, and closes his eyes. "She's havin' a hard time breathin', but the doc said it'll clear up soon."

"That's good," Spot says. Draping an arm along the back of the bench, a glove-clad hand rubs reassuringly over Race's shoulder. "But _you_ okay?"

Race smiles shallowly and feels his lips tremble. "Sorta," he admits. "I dunno. Too tired to think."

"D'you _ever_ think?" Spot replies teasingly.

"No, 'cause it hurts," Race says with a hollow laugh. He inhales the familiar earthy scent of Spot, spice and leather, and feels something in his chest unknot. "Thanks for stayin'," he says, quieter. "I know ya don't like crowds, but I'm glad you're here."

"Wasn't goin' nowhere 'til I knew youse okay," Spot says.

Race grins into Spot's shoulder at the thought. "You don't gotta stay all day," he says. "Figure I'm gonna be here a couple days 'til she's good to leave, 'less CPS comes and kidnaps me."

"Who?" Spot asks, tensing.

"Child Protective Services," Race elaborates. "They threatened to take me after last time she OD'd. They find out-" He shrugs wearily and lets the sentence trail off. "Fuck, Spot, I dunno what to do no more."

Spot presses a warm kiss to the top of his head, fingers massaging little circles between Race's shoulders. "Youse gonna stay and look out for your mom and let the rest us take care of ev'rythin' else," he says. "A'ready talked to Jack and Davey, they said to call if ya need anythin'. Was gonna run home in a bit, can bring ya anythin' you need from the house. Jack might know someone to help if the state gets involved; I'll check. But you just worry 'bout you and your mom for now, 'kay?"

They're too dried out for tears but Race can feel the familiar sting in his eyes anyway. He pushes himself closer to Spot's side as he tries to breathe through the emotion clogging his throat. "Should go back in soon, but - can ya just sit here with me a bit longer?" he asks.

"Course," Spot says. His free hand hovers for a second, and then he bites down on the fingertips of his glove, tugging it off, so his bared hand tangles with Race's between them. Race can recognize the sentiment behind the simple gesture; Spot is giving up the protection of his glove, revealing his scars this little bit, to be able to comfort Race. The corners of Race's eyes burn again. "Long as ya need."


	17. Chapter 17

It's nearing noon before his hunger finally gets the best of him, and Race grudgingly extracts himself from Spot's side. They've been chatting aimlessly, mostly trading funny stories about Jack and Davey to keep Race's mind off everything else, and watching the endless foot traffic around the front of the hospital. Spot won't say anything, but it's clear he's uncomfortable, both from the crowds and from the heat, the sunlight beating down on his heavy leather jacket now that their shade has vanished.

"Go ahead and go home," Race says, using the edge of Spot's hood to wipe at a bead of sweat that's rolling across his forehead. "Ya look like you're dying."

Spot snorts dismissively. "Can handle the sun, it ain't gonna kill me."

"Okay, tough guy," Race teases. "But I should get back anyway. Gonna grab somethin' to eat and go check on Ma again."

"'Kay, well call me if ya need anythin'," Spot says. "Can be back in no time. And I'll get some'a ya stuff together to bring back later, if ya want." He tugs his glove back on. "Pro'lly good I go anyway, think I was scarin' the girls at the front desk by hangin' 'round in the lobby."

Race laughs. "'Cause you look like a terrorist sittin' there in all black with your hood up like that," he points out. "Lucky they didn't call security on you."

"Get myself arrested a li'l earlier than planned," Spot replies dryly, scoffing. He takes Race's hand, rubbing a thumb along the back of his knuckles. "Speakin' of, gonna talk to Jack when I get home," he says, a note of determination even as he lowers his voice. "'Bout what we were talkin' 'bout this morning, 'bout makin' a deal with the cops. See if he got some ideas on how to get started, who to talk to and all."

"Yeah?" Race asks, brightening up eagerly. "For real?"

Spot nods. "Figure should a'least get an idea," he says. "See what he thinks, if it's even a good plan. And was thinkin' that maybe startin' now 'fore I turn eighteen might help too, since I'se still a minor for a li'l bit longer. 'Sides, it'll keep me busy while youse here."

Smiling, Race leans in closer. "You sayin' you're gonna miss me?" he asks playfully.

"Sayin' youse a distraction and I don't get nothin' done while youse around," Spot says but his lips slant into a small smile. Hooking a hand behind Race's neck, he tugs the taller boy down into a kiss. "Go see ya mom," he says, only a breath apart, and he tips his head up enough to meet Race's eyes below the rim of his hood. "I'll talk to ya later."

Race dips in for one last kiss and then straightens up, nodding. "See ya," he agrees on a sigh. Spot squeezes his hand before he turns and heads for the parking structure. Race watches him for a minute, something in his chest aching, and then he exhales and walks back to the hospital doors. A receptionist points him toward the cafeteria, where Race uses the crumpled bill in his wallet to buy a dry sandwich that he practically inhales.

Back up on the third floor, Race stops at the ICU desk to check in with the nurse there. "My ma's Sofia Higgins in 308," he says when the nurse asks. "They said I just had to check in with ya and they'd let me back in."

"Mr. Higgins?" Race glances over in surprise at the voice and then feels the bottom drop out of his stomach. A police officer is walking over from the waiting area, a pleasant smile on her face. "You're Antonio Higgins, right?" she asks when she reaches him. She's tall and thin, with bronze skin and her long, black hair pulled back into a knot at the base of her neck. "I'm Officer De La Guerra."

"Uh, hi," Race says uncertainly, shaking the hand she offers. "Is somethin' wrong?"

"Just following up," the officer says kindly. "Would you mind chatting with me for a minute?" She sets a hand on his arm, guiding him toward a chair in an empty corner of the waiting room. Sitting down next to him, she smiles knowingly. "Relax, Antonio, you're not in trouble. Just wanted to ask you a couple questions."

"Right, yeah, sorry," Race says. He licks his lips and manages an awkward smile. "Just - been a long night."  

"I'm sure," Officer De La Guerra says sympathetically. She pulls a little notepad from the shirt pocket of her uniform and flicks through a couple pages. "The doctor's told me your mother's recovering well. How are you holding up?"

Race lets out a breath, picking at his nails. "I'm good."

"Tired?" the officer asks, raising an eyebrow. Race reluctantly nods an agreement. "I'll bet. We'll keep this short. So you weren't with your mother when she overdosed, right?"

"I've been stayin' with some friends for the summer," he explains and smiles because it's not even technically a lie at this point. "Been at a friend's house in Brooklyn."

"Were you aware of your mother's drug use?" the officer asks in a tone of forced neutrality. "Does she have a history of this that you know of?"

Race is instinctively tempted to lie, but he knows that'd only backfire on him in the long run. It wouldn't take much work for the officer to pull up a history and find the report from last time, if she hasn't already. So he swallows and nods. "A couple years ago," he says, settling for fudging the truth a little instead. "She overdosed once, but she's been doin' better since."

"And has she ever done drugs in your presence?" Officer De La Guerra asks. Race shakes his head firmly - that one's a lie, but he's not about to tell the cops that. Besides, in another room where he can't see it is _technically_ not in his presence, right? "Okay," the officer says, making a notation on her little pad. "One more thing and I'll let you go. Does your mom have a history of depression or suicide?"

"She didn't do it on purpose," Race says immediately, frowning. "Was an accident. That's why she called you guys, 'cause she didn't mean to."

Officer De La Guerra holds up a hand in a pacifying gesture. "Okay, we're just checking," she says. "Standard questions. I'll let you get back to your mom. Do you have a number we can reach you at, in case we need to ask you anything else?" Race winces but dutifully recites his phone number. "Okay, thanks," the officer says, smiling again. "We'll be in touch. Have a nice day, Antonio."

Heart pounding against his ribs, Race eyes the officer as she strides to the elevator. All of her questions were simple and straightforward, and she seemed nice enough, but Race recognizes the subtext in her words. He takes a deep breath to steady himself and heads back to the desk. "Can I go in now?" he asks the same nurse, and she nods, pressing a button that makes the doors glide open. Calling a quick thanks, Race hurries into the ICU and backtracks to the room number.

His ma is still asleep, her face soft and relaxed in sleep beneath the breathing mask. The warm sunlight coming through the windows makes her look better than she did under the harsh fluorescents, bringing a little color to her cheeks. Race pulls his chair back over to the bedside - someone must've been by while he was out because they moved it - and sits down. With one hand curled around his ma's, the other gets out his phone, grimacing at the low battery warning.

Opening up his text thread with Spot, he types out a quick message.

And after a minute, he adds,

Sighing, Race slips his phone back into his pocket and leans against the edge of the bed. More waiting. Race settles his head down onto his arm and closes his eyes. Can't hurt to get a little more sleep.

The soft murmur of voices nudges Race back toward consciousness, and he lifts his head, blinking around in confusion. It takes a second for his memory to catch up, but as soon as it does, he scrubs a hand over his face to wipe away the last of the sleep. When he looks up, he offers a quick smile to the doctor standing on the other side of the bed, but his attention is purely for the other set of eyes watching him. "Hey, Ma, you're 'wake," Race says, straightening up in the hard plastic chair.

"Sorry, we were trying not to wake you," Dr. Davenport says, marking something on her clipboard and then setting it aside. "I was just telling Sofia that her lungs are sounding good, so we're going see how she does breathing on her own."  

Race glances up in surprise. "Yeah? Hey, that's great," he says, reaching out to squeeze his ma's hand.

He watches curiously as Dr. Davenport helps Ma to take off the bulky mask and replace it with a thin plastic tube that hooks over her ears and runs beneath her nose. "How's that feel?" the doctor asks, checking a screen above the bed that's displaying a bunch of different numbers and stats. "Any shortness of breath?"

"No," Ma says, her voice a little hoarse but steady. "No, I'm fine."

Dr. Davenport instructs her through taking several deep breaths, listening to her lungs through the stethoscope, before she nods decisively. "Sounds good," she announces. "Keep this up, you'll be out of here in no time. If you do start feeling any shortness of breath, be sure to page a nurse, okay? Otherwise, I'll be back to check on you again in a little bit."

Ma manages a small smile. "Thank you, doctor."

As the doctor leaves the room, Race moves up to sit on the edge of the bed. "Hey, how you feeling?" he asks. "You look better."

Ma lifts her eyes to meet his gaze, and her lip trembles slightly. "Antonio," she says and takes his hand again. "My beautiful boy. I missed you so much."

Race feels the tears rise again, unbidden, and they bring the wave of guilt back with them. "I missed you too," he admits. "I'm so sorry, Mamma."

"Tony, no," Ma says, tears escaping her. "You got nothing to be sorry for, _tesoro_."

"I should'a answered when you were callin'," he counters. "I didn't know, I wasn't thinkin'-"

Ma shushes him, folding his hand between both of hers. "No, baby, I fucked up," she says. "I - I just, I thought you didn't ever wanna see me again, and I wasn't thinkin' right."

Race makes a soft, frustrated noise, carding his free hand back through his hair. "Ma, I can't - I can't do this no more," he says, shaking. "Ya can't keep doin' this, I can't take it. You scared me so bad, and I can't keep livin' like that, wonderin' all the time if you're gonna die and I'mma be alone."

"I know," Ma says, voice breaking. "I know. And I'm tryin', I _am_. But it's just - it's hard, baby. It's hard, and it hurts so much."

"Yeah, I know it does," Race says. "But so does _this_ ," he gestures to the hospital room. "Seein' ya like this, it hurts _me_. And I can't keep doin' it. I - ya need to get better 'cause I can't do it no more. I need ya to get better. Please." When she blinks and turns her gaze away, Race frowns. "I mean it, Ma. I can't do it. Either you gotta get better, or I really am done."

Ma's eyes jump back to him, widening in shock. "Tony, no, _per favore_ -"

"No, Ma, no more," Race says firmly. "I ain't gonna keep sittin' around and watchin' ya kill yourself. I can't keep doin' that. I _won't_. I got my own life I gotta worry 'bout too, and I can't do that when I'm spendin' all my time wonderin' if today's gonna be the day you take too much and the cops don't get there in time." It's only the way Ma's gaze darts to the partially opened door that makes him realize his voice has risen to a half-shout, and he forces himself to lower it again. "You a'most died last night, Ma," he continues. "D'you even care 'bout that?"

" _Dispiace_ ," Ma sobs.

Race sighs. "I know, but sorry ain't gonna make you less dead," he says bluntly. "Sorry ain't gonna make me less an orphan. Fuck, Ma, I didn't even know where you been for months. I a'most died. Would'a, if someone hadn't saved me." He holds out his arm, showing the jagged, ruddy scar that stretches across his forearm. "See that? That's where your fuckin' drug dealer took a knife to me," he hisses.

"I never meant-"

"Yeah, you didn't mean it, but it still happened," he interrupts. "I been stuck hidin' with total fuckin' strangers so I don't get killed. I flunked outta school, ya know that? Couldn't go to school without riskin' a bullet, so I flunked all my classes. And they took my scholarship away, so I got kicked outta my dance group too. I've lost all the good things I had left 'cause of you, Ma, and it feels like you don't even care."

"Of course I care," she snaps, face flushed. "You're my son."

"Then prove it," Race challenges. "Do this for me. Get better. _Try_. Please."

Ma is crying too hard to speak, but she gives a jerky nod. When she gestures him closer, Race scoots up the bed so he can lay down beside her, resting his head on her shoulder, giving comfort as much as he's taking it. It takes several minutes for her to steady her voice enough to speak, whispering into his hair. "I'm so sorry, Antonio, I'm sorry. I just - I miss him _so much_."

Race swallows around the lump in his throat. It's the first time in a very long time she's even mentioned his father, and the raw pain in her voice is like a knife in his chest. "I know, Mamma. I miss him too. But I'd miss you just as much."

She huffs a thin sound that might've been a laugh beneath the emotion. "You've always been more like him than me," she says fondly. "Strong and brave."

"But pretty like you," Race responds with a grin, shooting a glance up at her, and this time she really does laugh.

" _Mio bellissimo figlio_ ," she says, stroking his hair softly, and somehow it's the lilt of the Italian that soothes him more than anything. "You're so grown up. A handsome man. Pappa would be very proud of you." She kisses the top of his head. " _I'm_ proud."

Race swallows back a sob, trying to get his emotions back under control. He's tired of crying and his eyes already feel like sandpaper. He wants, just for a minute, to feel like a normal kid again. A kid who has a real, supportive mother who is proud of his accomplishments - not proud of him for being so strong in the face of the disaster she's made of their lives. So he sits up and scrubs a hand over his face, then digs out his phone.

"You wanna see the routine I wrote for my audition?" Race asks eagerly. "I got a video." Ma nods, and he opens the video he recorded for Specs what feels like a lifetime ago. "I've changed it a li'l bit since," he says, passing the phone to her. "But it still turned out good."

Ma watches the video raptly, and there are tears in her eyes by the time it finishes. "Look at you, _tesoro_ , you are so good," she gushes. " _So_ good. It feels like yesterday you were so tiny you needed help to tie your slippers and now look at you." Race beams at the praise as he accepts his phone back, grimacing as the low battery warning flashes again. "Where have you been learning?" Ma asks, brow furrowed. "You weren't going to your old teacher..."

"I've just been practicing at home," Race says, shrugging. It takes him a second to realize what he said, only noticing by the way Ma's forehead creases deeper. "I mean, where I've been stayin'," he clarifies. "Not _home_ , obviously. The house I been stayin' at, they got a big empty shop room they let me use for practice. Turned it into a real dance studio, ach'lly. They got me mirrors and made a barre and ev'rythin'."

"They did?" Ma asks, expression torn between surprise and suspicion. "But you said you were staying with strangers?"

Race nods. "Yeah, I mean, they were strangers, at first," he agrees. "But they're my friends now too. Jack and Davey been takin' care of me, and Spot-" he breaks off, biting his lip, and feels the heat creeping up the back of his neck. "Spot's kinda more than a friend, really," he admits with a nervous smile.

Ma's eyebrows shoot up and she takes his hand. "I feel like you got a story to tell," she says, a hint of slyness to her smile. It's like a glimpse of the old Ma peeking through, the one who always encouraged his overactive imagination and teased him over his first crush, and Race's chest feels tight at the thought. "Why don't you tell me whatcha been up to all summer, Tony?"

So he does. Race tells her about being rescued from Wiesel by a mysterious guy on a motorcycle who let him stay in the apartment. About the charming housekeeper who looks after him, and the blind tutor who made him care about school. About the skulking boy who went out of his way to make Race happy in his home, who made Race his first real friend until they became inseparable. There's a lot that Race leaves out, skimming over a lot of details and the others' pasts, but it's oddly cathartic to finally share it with her.  

Of course, saying it all out loud it also makes him realize just how completely insane the whole thing is; judging by the look on Ma's face, she's thinking it too.

"I know it all sounds super crazy," Race says with a wry smile. "But I dunno, I guess I got kinda lucky. They're good guys. Oh, look, they's even helpin' me quit smokin'." He proudly pulls up his sleeve to show off the adhesive patch stuck to his shoulder. The edges of it are already starting to curl up from being worn too many hours, and he scrunches up his nose as he peels it off. "Hope Spot brings some more when he comes back later," he says, leaning out to drop the used patch in the bin.

"And Spot," his ma says, smirking slightly at the name, "he's the one you like?"

Race's ears burn red as he ducks his head, embarrassed, but he can't stop the grin that steals over his features. "He's grumpy and anti-social and kinda an ass sometimes," he says, speaking to his hands in his lap. "But then he's super smart and funny and really sweet too. I mean, he made me a _studio_. And he does all kindsa things for Jack and Davey too. And even though he acts all tough and mean, he's so gentle sometimes." Race twists his fingers together, remembering the warm feel of Spot's hand in his last night.

"Oh, _mio tesoro_ ," Ma says, cupping his cheek in her palm. "I know that look. Every mother dreams of seein' that look on her baby's face." Startled, Race glances up at her and raises an eyebrow questioningly. " _Amore_ , Antonio."

Eyes wide, Race stammers a flustered objection that doesn't actually contain any words. "I didn't say nothin' bout love, Ma," he finally manages, shaking his head. "Just - I like him, that's all. I'm just sixteen and I'm still goin' for that audition and stuff. We ain't - it's not like that." _Is it?_ Race pushes those thoughts away. He's way too tired for that right now.

Ma smiles knowingly, patting his cheek, but before she can say anything more, there's a soft knock at the door. A nurse pokes his head into the room and smiles uncertainly. "Uh, sorry to interrupt, Mrs. Higgins, but there's an officer here to speak to you," he says.

Race feels his breath stick in his throat, and he grasps at his mother's hand anxiously. No, they can't be back already. Are they here to take him away? No, not yet, not now. He can see the same thoughts flashing through Ma's eyes, but she sets her jaw and nods. The nurse steps back and then the door opens all the way to admit the police officer.

"Jack?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Years! Have a cliffhanger...?


	18. Chapter 18

Just when Race thinks that his day can't possibly get any crazier, Jack Kelly shows up in his ma's hospital room. Jack looks tired, his hair sticking up in the front the way it does when he's been running his hands through it, but he smiles when he meets Race's eyes. "Hey Racer," he greets.

Directly on the heels of his surprise, Race feels a crushing wave of relief. He doesn't know what's going on, but it's not a cop coming to take him away from his ma, so that's good. Even better, it's _Jack_ , who's steady and supportive and safe. Race could almost sob with gratitude at the familiar face, and he moves without thinking, sliding off the edge of the bed and half-sprinting across the room. Jack accepts the hug with a laugh, the sturdy weight of his arms tight around Race's narrow frame, and Race breathes in the comforting smell of pine and oil paints.

"You doin' okay, kiddo?" Jack asks, smoothing one large hand over Race's spine.

"Yeah, I'm good," Race answers. He draws back and scrubs a hand over his eyes, just in case. "What're you doin' here?"

"Wanted to make sure you and your mom was okay," Jack says simply.

At the mention, Race abruptly remembers they're not alone, and he glances back over his shoulder at his ma's confused expression. "Oh, right. Mamma, this is Jack, the one I told you about," he introduces. "The friend that's been lookin' out for me."

"Nice to finally meetcha, ma'am," Jack says, grinning, and he walks over to offer out a hand. "You got a helluva kid."

Ma shakes his hand with a tentative smile and then her gaze darts to Race. "Antonio, _un poliziotto_?"

Jack chuckles, obviously guessing what the word means, and rubs the back of his neck self-consciously. "We're sorta keeping that part on the down-low. And in his defense, Race - uh, Tony, I mean - he didn't know," he says.

"That you used to be a cop?" Race cuts in. "I know."

"Used-?" Jack trails off with a huff. "Right. Spot tell you?"

Race shakes his head. "Google."

That prompts a snort of laughter from Jack. "Right, course, the news stuff," he says. He cards a hand back through his hair again, making it stand up even worse. His gaze darts to the door to the room, and he carefully shuts it before speaking again. "A'right, so it's a really long story, I'll explain later, but the part that really matters right now is that I'm here to help, okay?"

"How?" Race asks, exchanging a nervous look with his mother.

"I'm part of a task force aimed at taking down the big players in the city's crime rings," Jack says, and it's strange to watch the change that comes over him as he talks, his posture straightening and hands folding in the small of his back. He suddenly looks taller and authoritative, and Race has met enough cops in his life to recognize the pose. "Wiesel is one of our top priority targets. So I reached out to my sergeant, and we're willing to negotiate a plea deal for you, Mrs. Higgins, in exchange for you testifying against Wiesel."

Ma straightens up, her eyes widening in panic. "He'll kill me," she hisses, terrified. "He'll kill Tony. No, no, no..."

"Whoa, hey, Mamma, breathe," Race says urgently. He can hear her sharp, shallow gasps from across the room and he rushes to her bedside, gripping her shoulders. "You gotta breathe, Ma, remember? Slow." Ma descends into a fit of coughing and Race rubs her back until she manages to get her breathing back into something relatively steady.

"I'm sorry," Jack says more softly. "I didn't mean - you'll be protected, of course. Both of you will be given police protection for as long as it takes for the case to close."

"Both of us?" Race asks, looking up at Jack.

Something fierce and protective flashes across Jack's face. "Wiesel tried to kill you, Racer," he says. "I'm _not_ lettin' him get away with that. But we need your help. We've been building up a case against him for a while now, but the DA won't press charges until we've got something solid, something Wiesel won't be able to slip out from under. You two can give us that. Between your knowledge of his drug trafficking and the attempted homicide, we could finally get this guy behind bars."

"We'd be safe," Race says, awed, as he turns back to his ma. "We could go home, Ma." She looks less certain, chewing on her lip as her gaze flits back and forth between Race and Jack.

"You don't hafta decide right now," Jack says kindly. "I understand that this is a big decision, and you're obviously still not feeling great. But I wanted you to know the option is there. Both of you." He clears his throat. "And you'll be given protection for as long as you're in the hospital, as well. I've already reached out to the local precinct, they're arranging to have an officer stationed outside your room at all times to keep you safe."

"Why?" Ma asks, her voice a little shaky but her eyes determined. "Why are you doing all this for us?"

Jack smiles, and it softens everything about his expression, his body sliding seamlessly out of police-mode and back into the Jack that Race is used to. "I'm probably supposed to say something 'bout civic duty and all," he says with a shrug. "But honestly? I've gotten kinda attached to this li'l brat." He reaches out and ruffles Race's hair, who squawks and bats him away indignantly. "Your son's a good kid, Mrs. Higgins, and I promise you, I'll do whatever I can to make sure he's okay," Jack says solemnly, holding Ma's gaze. "I'd swear it on my life."

Surprised by the intensity in Jack's voice, Race looks up at him in shock. He knows Jack likes him and they've become good friends, but the keen determination in Jack's eyes makes Race's chest feel too tight. It's something more than casual friendship, something deeper and more permanent. It's the way Pa used to look at him when he told him that Race had _il Fuoco d'Italia_.

And Race realizes, in a moment of stunning clarity, that he suddenly understands what Davey was trying to tell him that night: friends are the family you choose. Race's chosen his, and it looks like they picked him back too.

Whatever Ma sees in Jack's face must convince her because she nods. "I will think about it," she says. She threads her hand with Race's and asks, quieter, " _Ti fidi di lui?_ " You trust him?

"Completely," Race answers, glancing back to Jack with a smile.

Ma nods again. "Thank you, officer."

"Please, call me Jack," he responds. "Your kid's been schoolin' me in the kitchen all summer, figure that puts us on first names, right?" He laughs and sticks his hands in his pockets. "Besides, I wasn't kidding when I said we're still tryna keep the cop thing hush. I'm still technically s'posed to be undercover, though that pro'lly won't last much longer now."

 _Undercover_. Race exhales in comprehension, even as it brings up more questions. If he's undercover, why all the stories about Jack being fired? What does it all have to do with Wiesel? And why is Jack doing housekeeping for Spot? Does Spot know? No, he can't, not with all that research he was doing, right? What about Davey?

Before Race gets a chance to ask any of those questions, they're interrupted by a knock at the door. There's a pause, and then the door cracks open enough for Dr. Davenport to stick her head in. "Sorry," she says, smiling. "Just wanted to check in on Sofia one more time before my shift ends." Stepping into the room, she glances at Jack, and her brow furrows. "Sorry, you're-?"

"Detective Kelly," Jack introduces, pulling out his wallet and flipping it open to reveal a glossy id card with 'NYPD' printed in bold letters along the top. "Metro Organized Crime Task Force."

The doctor's eyes widen, momentarily caught off guard, before she regathers her composure. "Pleasure," Dr. Davenport greets. "Well, I won't keep you from your business long." The doctor turns and addresses Ma, instructing her through several long, deep breaths as she listens with the stethoscope again.

Once she's gone over the various screens and monitors, making quick notes on her clipboard, she nods. "Everything still sounds good," she announces. "Lungs are mostly cleared. We should be able to release you from the ICU tomorrow morning. How are you feeling as far as pain? Nausea?"

"A little," Ma agrees, grimacing. "My head hurts."

Dr. Davenport nods again. "As expected with the withdrawal. I'll get you another dose of methadone, it should help with the symptoms. We can discuss where you'll go from here in the morning, whether that's just to the main ward or elsewhere." At this, she casts a quick glance at Jack, and Race can guess what she's thinking; that her patient is most likely going to be released from the hospital in handcuffs. Race reaches for his mother's hand again.

"For now," the doctor says, returning the clipboard to the rack at the end of the bed, "you should get some sleep. That's what is going to help you most right now. I'll be back with that medication in just a minute. I should also let you know," and at this, her gaze shifts to Race, "visiting hours for the day will be over in about twenty minutes."

Race's expression drops; they're making him leave? Before he can form a protest, Jack clears his throat. "We'll leave once her security detail arrives," he says, smiling kindly but with that flat edge of authority to his eyes again. "There should be a patrol officer arriving shortly, if you'd have the desk let them through?" Dr. Davenport's eyebrow raises for a second, a brief flicker of surprise and suspicion, but she nods politely and leaves without argument.

"That's so weird," Race says before he can stop himself. Jack glances at him questioningly, and Race grins. "Seein' you be all bossy and in charge," he elaborates. "I mean, it's _you_."

Jack snorts. "Thanks, kid," he responds dryly. "Maybe I've just never wasted it on you 'cause I know you don't listen anyway."

Race hums, conceding the point. He feels Ma brushing her thumb over the back of his hand. "Do we really gotta go?" he asks, looking up to Jack hopefully.

"Hospital rules," says Jack. "But we'll be back first thing in the morning, promise. Besides, I'm sure your mom could use some sleep, and you look like you could too." Race shoots him an indignant look, and Jack smirks. "Sorry, pal, but it's true. You're a hot mess."

"Bitch," Race grumbles sulkily. He doesn't want to admit that Jack may have a point, though; it was an early morning after a kind of crazy night, and the hours of napping at his ma's bedside can't have done him any favors.

Jack shrugs unconcernedly. "Don't pretend you don't love me." Smiling, he steps forward to offer his hand to Ma again. "It was nice meeting you, Mrs. Higgins. I'll see you tomorrow. I'll wait for ya outside, Racer." With a quick nod to them both, he slips out into the hall and shuts the door behind him.

Turning to his ma, Race smiles awkwardly. "I'll be back in the mornin', promise," he says insistently, squeezing her hand in his. "And we'll get things all figured, okay? Just - try and get some sleep, okay? Get feelin' better, and we'll figure the rest out."

"You're sure you're safe?" Ma asks, and there's no missing the way her eyes dart to the door.

"Jack's my friend, Ma," Race says, a faint prickle of defensiveness rolling down his spine. And where does she get off wondering about his safety now, after months of leaving him in the hands of strangers? After abandoning him to his fate at the hands of a drug lord in the first place? "Course I'm safe with him."

"He's _police_ ," Ma counters. "Police who wants to make Wiesel more mad at us. It'll make you a target."

Race scowls. "I'm a'ready a target, Ma, you did that all your own," he reminds her sharply. "Least Jack's tryna fix it instead of just running away." Ma flinches, averting her gaze. Taking a breath to steady himself, Race continues wearily, "Jack's the one been keeping me safe all summer. So if he says doing this is a good idea, I'mma trust him. And I know ya don't listen to me much, but I think you should trust him too."

Ma still looks uncertain, and the only response she gives is to lift his hand and press a kiss to the inside of his wrist. Race can tell that's the best he's going to get for now. Sighing, he forces on another smile. " _Buona notte_ , Mamma," he says. Ducking in, he kisses her cheek and then brushes a stray lock of her tangled hair from her forehead. " _Ti amo_."

" _Ti amo_ , Antonio," Ma echoes with a shaky smile. Race hesitates, a strange sense of _something_ like there's more he should say, but nothing comes. So he just squeezes her hand one more time and lets himself out of the room.

In the hall, Jack is chatting to a uniformed officer against the wall. Jack's eyes jump over at the sound of the door opening, and he straightens up. "Hey kid, you ready to go?"

"I'm ready for food," Race admits, grinning. "I'm starving."

Jack snorts, throwing his arm around Race's shoulders. "We'll call Dave, get him to order some Chinese," he says as he steers Race toward the ICU doors. "Should be there by the time we get home."

They walk out of the hospital in a companionable quiet that's only interrupted when Jack pulls out his phone at the doors to beg Davey to order dinner for them all. The exhaustion of the long day is hanging over him, and Race all but collapses into the passenger seat of Jack's beat-up Honda when they reach it. "How you holding up, Racer?" Jack asks, making no motion to start the ignition. "For real, I mean, not the tough face you been making for your mom. You okay?"

"Mostly just tired," Race says, sighing as he slumps in the lumpy chair. "It's just - a lot, ya know?" He casts a glance sideways at Jack. "So you're really a cop still?"

Jack grimaces, fidgeting his keyring in his lap. "So you gotta understand that there's a lot of stuff I can't talk about, okay?" he says. "The case is still open, and this is a big deal case we're working - I'm talkin' tag-team with the FBI kinda stuff here. So some of it I can't tell you, and anything I do tell you, you can't tell no one else, got it?"

"Do Spot and Davey know?" Race asks curiously.

"I gave Spot the cliff-notes version earlier," Jack says with a weary chuckle. "Felt so bad; I guess he's been doing all this research all summer tryna get my name cleared. So he knows a li'l bit of it. Davey don't know, though. Can't tell him yet since he ain't involved in the cases. Which means you can't say nothin' either."

"That sucks," Race says, scowling. "I gotta lie? 'Cause I dunno if you've noticed, but it's _super_ hard to lie to Davey."

Laughing, Jack drops his head back against the seat. "Oh trust me, kid, I know," he says. "But it'll be okay. He's already gonna know somethin's up, I'll tell him it's confidential, and we can't talk 'bout it yet. He'll understand."

Race nods, contemplating his fingernails as he goes over the information in his head. "Okay. So what was all that stuff in the news about you then? They said you were making deals with a mob boss or something."

"Yeah, the news exaggerated that part a lot," Jack says wryly. "First off, he isn't a mob boss. Worst Skittery's ever done is hotwire some cars, bit of joyriding. Thing is, I knew this kid growin' up, we were foster brothers for a couple years. He's a good kid, just sorta stupid. Reckless. S'why I was talkin' to him in the first place, tryna talk some sense into him before he got himself into something worse."

"Then you weren't cuttin' deals with him?" Race asks, brow furrowed.

Jack scoffs. "Closest thing to a deal we cut was me buyin' him lunch once 'cause he was broke. I was just tryna help him get back on his feet, clean up his act and get straight, ya know? But then another officer sees me meetin' up with a known car thief after my shift one night and assumes the worst, so next thing I know, they're draggin' me into Internal Affairs."

"But if you didn't do anything wrong," Race says, frowning, "why didn't they say that?"

"That's where things get complicated," says Jack, letting out a breath. He licks his lips and then finally turns over the ignition in the car. Backing them out of the parking structure, he doesn't speak again until they're on the road. "See, I'd been applying to become a detective for a few months before all that happened. Been chatting to a couple the sergeants and other detectives about it, trying to get my foot in the door.

"So after the whole thing with Skittery gets closed out, Lieutenant Kloppmann comes to me and says he's got a job offer for me. The Organized Crimes detectives were teaming up with the FBI in this big thing to take out some of the biggest crime bosses in the city, including sending some guys in undercover. And they said a dirty cop lookin' for new work is the perfect cover, if I was willing to play it."

Race exhales heavily, the pieces finally starting to slot together inside his brain. What better way to get a cop in with the criminals than to paint him as one too? "So you've been pretending you really got fired so you could make friends with the gang guys," he concludes. "And get inside info on them. Right?"

"Basically," Jack agrees, guiding the car into the packed evening traffic headed for the bridge. "I mean, there's all this legal stuff that makes it way more complicated than that, but that's the general idea."

"But you're cleaning house for Spot," Race says. "How's that help?" The moment it leaves his mouth, Race's eyes widen in horror. "Oh, shit, is he one of your targets? 'Cause I know he said he's done stuff but he's a kid and that's super fucked up and-"

"Relax, Tony," Jack speaks over him. "I'm not there to arrest Spot. Fuck, I wanna get that poor kid as far outta this shit as I can. Lord knows he's already been through enough."

"Oh, you're after his dad, huh?" Race says, smacking his forehead. He remembers Jack telling him from the very beginning that he worked for Spot's dad, and that he knew the guy was involved in shady stuff. With everything Spot's told him about his dad's apparent criminal empire, it makes sense that he'd be the sort of guy the cops would want to take down.

"Was convenient timing," Jack says, smirking. "Right as they approach me about going undercover, word starts drifting around the underground contacts that a big-time crime boss is looking for someone to keep an eye on his kid, preferably someone with a background in security. A dirty cop who's just got fired and is pissed off about it fit the bill pretty good."

As they inch forward in the stop-and-go traffic, Jack scrubs a hand over his face wearily. "Gave me easy access to gather information, both from Spot and his dad, 'cause I have to check in with him once a month still. Course, then Spot has whatever li'l crisis of faith he had that made him stop bein' a dick, and he decided to go ahead and do my job for me without me even knowing. Wrote up this whole thing about everything he knows on his dad's crew and crimes and stuff."

"You're gonna keep him safe, right?" Race asks earnestly. "'Cause he's so sure his dad's gonna kill him, but you _can't_ let that happen. You'll protect him, right?"

"No one's setting a hand on him, Racer, I promise ya," Jack says firmly, glancing away from the road to meet his gaze. There's that look again, the blazing ferocity in his eyes from earlier. "You and Spot both. We're going to keep you safe." His expression softens slightly, a glint of playfulness at the edge of his smile, and he reaches across to tousel Race's hair again. "No one touches my boys and gets away with it."

Race laughs, rolling his eyes, but there's a swell of warmth in his chest. "Don't make it weird, old man," he says, shaking his head. Of course, the mention brings one more question to Race's mind. "But what about your li'l brother? Weren't you tryna adopt him?"

Jack's smile flickers and he bites the corner of his thumbnail. "Charlie? Yeah. Almost didn't take the job 'cause of it. And then he whacked me in the shins with a crutch when I told him that." He huffs a laugh. "Told me kids like us know what it's like to get screwed over by the shit these criminals do, and that's why we gotta be the ones to do somethin' about it. Said he could wait a bit longer if it meant gettin' a bad guy off the streets."

"Because sometimes the kids from bad places just wanna do something to make things suck less," Race says, remembering Jack telling him that same thing all the way back in the beginning. Jack glances over at him in surprise, a hint of smile resurfacing. "That's what you meant, huh?"

"So you _do_ listen to me on occasion," Jack remarks in amusement. Race smacks his shoulder. Grinning, Jack's hand drifts down to fidget with the little cowboy keychain. "He gimme this," he says. "We both love those old westerns. He said it's good because being a cowboy isn't easy and it's dangerous, but after a long time alone on the range, they always get to come home in the end." He snorts, shaking his head, and turns his attention back to the road. "Too wise for a ten-year-old, sometimes."

"You're still gonna get to adopt him, right?" Race asks. "When this's all over?"

And Jack beams that enormous smile that takes ten years off his face. The one he gets when he's painting, or when he's telling stupid puns that make Davey groan, or letting Race boss him around in the kitchen. "Got a friend in OCFS, she's been helping me out with it," he says. "Soon as the case goes public, so I ain't undercover, we're gonna make it happen." The traffic ahead of them shifts forward, and Jack grins. "Finally! I'm starvin'. Let's get home."

 _Home_. Race smiles and settles back in the seat as he watches the bridge cables pass the window. He's ready to go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy exposition, Batman. 
> 
> I don't love this chapter, but hopefully it answers some of your guys' questions about Jack.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: discussion of depression, suicide, and psychological abuse.

Race only makes it about three steps into the front hall of the apartment before he's promptly wrapped in one of Davey's spine-breaking hugs. Even as the air is being crushed out of his lungs, Race chuckles and hugs Davey back. "God, we were so worried," Davey says when he finally lets go, hand moving up to grip Race's shoulder the way he does when he's trying to keep track of someone. "How are you? Are you okay? Your mom's okay?"

"It's fine, everyone's fine," Race says, laughing. "Relax, Mom, everything's okay."

Davey snorts, rolling his eyes at the tease. "Well forgive me for getting worried when Spot calls to say he rushed you to the hospital in the middle of the night," he says dryly. "I worry. I'm a worrier. Deal with it." Shaking his head, he sweeps his free hand up over the side of Race's face and then down to his other shoulder like he's checking for injuries. "Seriously though, everything's okay?" the blind man asks nervously. "Because between you and Jack and Spot all being in and outta here, I'm really starting to think I missed something important, and if you're in-"

"Dave," Jack interrupts from behind Race with a laugh. "Let the kid breathe, wouldja? He's had a long day. I'll catch ya up later, okay?" Although his tone is playful, there's that undercurrent of authority to it again that Race finally knows how to place.

A flicker of a scowl flashes across Davey's face, brow drawing down into a suspicious V, before he clears his throat and nods, smiling again. "Right, yeah, you must be exhausted," he says and tugs Race gently in the direction of the living room. "C'mon, dinner got here just before you did. Thought maybe we'd have a movie night."

"Sounds good," Race agrees gratefully. As he turns to follow Davey toward the living room, he sees Spot hovering in the doorway. The shorter boy smiles uncertainly and Race grins as he throws an arm around Spot's shoulders, leaning into his side as they head for the sofa. The coffee table is laid with a dozen or so different Chinese takeaway cartons, and Race's stomach growls loudly at the smell of warm food. Flopping dramatically onto the sofa, Race pokes through boxes curiously until he finds one of Szechuan beef and he snatches it up eagerly.

"You know there's plates," says Spot, nodding toward the stack of plates and cutlery on the corner of the table.

Race snorts. "That's implying I'm sharing," he responds, grabbing a pair of chopsticks. He settles back into the cushion, cradling the carton in his lap, and plucks out a piece of meat.

"Pig," Spot says with a laugh. He loads a plate for himself and then drops down next to Race, leaning in to jab his fork into the carton in Race's lap. "Ya can share one," he says when Race squawks indignantly. "Diva."

" _Bastardo_ ," Race grumbles but he doesn't stop the shorter boy from stealing a piece. Slumping down into the cushion, Race props his weight against Spot's side and starts eating. Jack turns on a superhero movie they've all seen before and then sits on the other end of the sofa, settling his plate of Chinese into his lap, while Davey is curled up in the armchair he's claimed for himself.

It's an easy, comfortable evening, the four of them teasing each other and making fun of the movie over their dinner. They talk about everything but Race's situation, although the curiosity is apparent in Davey's face, and eat their way through the various cartons of delivery. Race pretends not to notice whenever Spot sneaks another piece from the box in Race's lap, but he jabs Jack with his chopsticks for trying. Once he's eaten what he's pretty sure is half his body weight in Chinese food, Race sprawls lazily back into the sofa with his head propped on Spot's shoulder and lets the sound of the others' conversation roll over him.

Race doesn't even notice he's drifted off until he's woken by a finger prodding his ribs. Blinking awake, he realizes the room is quiet, the television off and the other seats vacated. Race lifts his head, but he doesn't sit up, his weight still propped against the sturdy body beside him. "Where's ev'ryone?" he murmurs in confusion.

"Upstairs," Spot answers. "Think Jack's getting yelled at, pro'lly. Davey was makin' that 'we gotta talk' face when they left to put away the food." Race winces; he's seen that face before, and it never ends well for whoever's on the receiving end. It's only worse now knowing that Jack can't give Davey the answers he's going to want and that Davey's going to be annoyed at being left out of the loop. "C'mon, ya need sleep," Spot says, nudging Race with an elbow.

"Then why'd ya wake me up?" Race protests blearily.

Spot snorts. "'Cause you got a bed, dumbshit. And you was droolin' on me." Yelping, Race drags a hand over his mouth and is relieved to find it dry. Spot smirks as he stands and offers a hand to help Race up. When Race finishes stretching and finally gets to his feet, he doesn't drop Spot's hand, threading their fingers together lazily. Spot casts a sideways glance at him, half-amused and half-tender, but returns the grip as he leads Race toward the stairs.

"Go on, into bed," says Spot when they reach the door to Race's bedroom, giving him a small shove.

Too tired to care that he sounds needy, Race tightens his grip on Spot's hand and asks, "Stay?" Spot raises an eyebrow, eyes darting to the bed, and then he nods. Race exhales in relief as the shorter boy shuts the door behind him. Stripping down to his underwear, Race flops onto the bed and rolls to plug his dead phone into the charger.

Spot flicks the lights off and then sits down awkwardly on the edge of the bed in his boxers. "C'mere," Race says, tugging his arm until Spot slides up to lay down next to him. His bed is smaller than Spot's, but it's still plenty big once Race folds himself around Spot's side, making himself comfortable. Settling his head onto Spot's chest, Race inhales that amber spice scent that's distinctly Spot, and unwinds. "Today sucked," he mumbles into Spot's skin.

"M'sorry," Spot says, splaying his hand warm on Race's back. He tips his chin to press a soft kiss to the top of Race's head. "But it's gonna be okay. Jack's gonna get it all figured out. Said they can getcha mom some help, get Weasel put away so youse safe. You'll be okay."

"She's gonna run again," Race admits softly. Spot's fingers spasm against Race's spine. "I can tell. Maybe not tonight, but soon as she can, she's gonna cheese it. It's what she does."

"But she's got you," Spot counters. "If doin' this will help keep you safe, she's gotta do it."

Race scoffs. "If she cared 'bout keeping me safe, none this would've happened in the first place," he says. "I dunno, maybe she'll surprise me and actually come through for me this time."

"If she don't, she's fuckin' stupid," says Spot. Race bites off a laugh. "I mean it, Racer. 'Cause anyone that knows you and don't wanna keep you safe is stupid. Youse too good for all this shit."

Resting his chin on Spot's shoulder so he can see the other boy's profile in the weak light, Race grins. "You're going soft on me, Spotty," he teases. Spot snorts, shaking his head. As the shorter boy traces patterns with his fingertips between Race's shoulder blades, Race considers him thoughtfully. "What made ya change?" Spot looks over at him, raising an eyebrow questioningly. "Jack said you were a dick the first couple months here, and then you just sorta - stopped," Race elaborates. "So if it wasn't the scars that made ya act different, what was it?"

"Oh." Spot's hand stills against Race's spine, and he pulls a lip between his teeth, worrying it distractedly.

"You don't gotta say if you don't want," Race says, immediately recognizing the tension in the way Spot's shoulders bunch up slightly.

Spot shakes his head, smoothing his hand along the blond's back. "In the start, I was real pissed," he says. "Mad at ev'ryone, ya know? Mad this happened to me, mad at my old man for stickin' me here, at Jack and Dave for watchin' me. Tried to run a couple times, but the old man used to have fellas watchin' the building that stopped me, brought me back if I left. So after a bit, I was pissed and scared and just wanted _out_."

"Out?" Race echoes. In response, Spot sets Race's hand on the inside of his wrist, dragging Race's fingers slowly along the skin there. Race can feel a scar there, but this one is different than runic shapes that cover his body; a single, straight line up the middle of his wrist. Race's heart seizes at the realization. " _Gesù_ , Spotty."

"Thought it was my only chance," Spot says simply, shrugging. "Only way out, ya know? 'Cept she stopped me - the witch, I mean. Showed up outta nowhere and just healed it like nothin'. And she was fuckin' _pissed_. Way she was lookin' at me," Spot breaks off with a shiver. He licks his lips before he goes on. "She said if I was gonna treat lives like they were worth nothin', then I was at least gonna feel 'em all first. Feel all the hurtin' I put out into the world."

He's trembling, a faint roughness edging his voice, but it seems that now Spot's started, he can't stop, the words tumbling out of him in a breathless rush. "Then she - I toldja ev'ry one of these scars is for a person. For someone I hurt, or got hurt, or worse. And she - she made me _feel_ it. All of it, in my head like I was livin' it. All the hurtin' I ever put someone through and I could feel it, one afta another inside my head. And not just the beatin', but their emotions too. All'a this fear and pain and anger and sad and _ev'rythin'_."

"Fuckin' hell," Race hisses. In the light creeping through the curtains, Race can see Spot's jaw quivering, eyes squeezed shut. It feels like a knife in his chest, and Race extracts his hand to brush it reassuringly along Spot's cheek. Spot sucks in a breath that sounds slightly damp and clutches Race's hand to his skin, turning his face into his palm.

"How's a fella s'posed to live with that?" Spot whispers against his skin. "And I didn't wanna, didn't wanna live with all that in my head, but she said I gotta last the year. That I owed them folks that much at least. Said once my year's up, then she don't care what I do no more."

"My God, that's fuckin' awful," Race breathes, shaking with indignation and sympathy. "M'sorry."

"Don't be," Spot counters. He takes a deep breath, and his voice is steadier when he speaks again. "It fucked me up a while, but that's the thing finally made me realize what I'd done. That there was a reason I was bein' punished."

"Bullshit," Race snarls. That makes Spot's eyes snap open, glancing up at the blond in surprise. "It ain't fair pinning all the blame on you for that shit. Why the fuck she punishin' just you? Why not your dad? He's more to blame than you. Why ain't she fuckin' with _his_ head?"

The corner of Spot's mouth twitches up a little. "You defendin' my honor?"

Race snorts, but he can't completely stop his answering smirk. "Just sayin' your witch friend should get a li'l more 'equal opportunity' with her magical _justice_ ," he lays on the contempt at the last word, making his opinion on that obvious. "Ya know, share the wealth and all."

"How generous," Spot says dryly. He heaves a breath, guiding Race back down to rest his head on Spot's chest, and wraps his arm across Race's shoulders. "When she did it, she said it's 'cause I had a chance. That I didn't know the value of lives and I needed to learn it."

"By giving you tattoos?" Race says, brow furrowed. "How's that do anything?"

Spot chuckles and shrugs. "Guess if I knew that, none this would'a happened, right?" he says. Spot hums pensively, a low noise that vibrates through his ribs, so Race feels it more than hears it. "S'your fault it even matters," he says. Race makes a noise of protest, but Spot's touch is still gentle in a way that says it's not accusing. "Didn't plan on livin' past eighteen 'til you showed up and messed it all up."

"You 'spect me to apologize or something?" Race asks sarcastically.

Although he laughs, one hand drifts up to brush along the side of Race's neck tenderly. "Wouldn't dream of it," Spot replies with a smirk. "'Sides, if either us got somethin' to apologize for, it ain't you. Keep thinkin' there's no way - youse too good for me, and I should letcha go, but I don't wanna. Just wanna enjoy this while it lasts."

"I'm not goin' nowhere, Spot," Race says firmly.

Spot grins, but it's sad and wistful in the pale light. "Ya say that now, but then youse gonna go on your tour and see all them places and meet all them people," he says.

"Maybe, but still gonna come back to ya after," says Race. He slings his leg across Spot's hips, shifting up to brace himself above the shorter boy. "You're my lucky charm, remember? _Mio piccolo punto._ "

"Youse an idiot," Spot responds, but there's a hint of a laugh beneath it. "And that still ain't funny."

"I'm hilarious," Race says, grinning. Bracketing Spot's head with his forearms, Race ducks in to kiss him, a slow, hot drag of lips that makes chills ripple down his spine. Race props his forehead against Spot's when they part for air, breathing heavily. "Spot, I dunno what's gonna happen anymore," he admits. "With everything - my ma, the audition, with Weasel. We go to trial like Jack wants, I might not be able to go on tour. That's a thing they do, isn't it? When you're in a case? They make ya stay there?"

Spot makes a noncommittal noise. "Us'lly that's if youse the one in trouble," he says. "But they could, yeah. Need ya around for interviews and trials and stuff. And to keep ya safe, in case Weasel's people try to get you to back out." He sweeps his palms along Race's sides, the gesture comforting even as the coarse slide of his fingers leave goosebumps in their wake. "M'sorry, Racer. I know how much ya want that tour job."

Race sighs. "I do," he agrees. "But it ain't the only thing I want anymore." Smiling, he kisses the black dot on Spot's cheekbone. Spot smirks at the gesture, but his dark eyes are fond. "So I dunno what's gonna happen tomorrow, or what I'm doin' with my life no more," Race continues. "But I know that when my head gets all crazy, you're the one that makes it better. Everything's easier with you. Makes more sense, I guess. And I don't wanna go into all this shit without you."

"Okay," Spot says, squeezing Race's hips gently. "Long as you want me, long as I can, I'mma be here to help ya. Just-" He worries his lip again and lets out a breath. "Thing is, even with Jack goin' to bat for me, I'mma pro'lly still wind up with jail time, ya know that, right? Ain't gonna be a big help from in there."

Race groans, pressing his eyes shut. "None this is fair," he grumbles.

"Life ain't fair," Spot replies, shrugging.

"Then ya know what I want?" Race says, lifting his head enough to be able to meet Spot's gaze in the dark. "I wanna kiss you 'til we both forget how much ev'rything else sucks. Whaddya say?"

And Spot laughs, sliding a hand up to cup it around the back of Race's neck. "If ya insist."

They take things much slower than the night before, a lazy exploration of skin and sensation. It's a study in contrasts, the way Race's long, lean figure melds with Spot's compact musculature, the scrape of rigged scarring over smooth, freckled skin. Where he was hesitant before, Spot is all too willing to take the lead now, pinning Race to the mattress and thoroughly discovering every inch of his body.

"You're such a tease," Race moans as Spot places a row of warm, open-mouth kisses up the column of his neck. The other boy continues unconcernedly, and when he shifts his head, the twisted bits of metal in his eyebrow drag against the underside of Race's chin. Race sucks in a breath, toes curling in the sheets at the unexpected sensation. "Fuck, that's weirdly hot," he gasps, moving his hand down Spot's arm to run his fingers over the jagged spiral of silver on his bicep.

"You got the weirdest fuckin' kinks," Spot says with an airy chuckle. Race brushes his lips along the arch of where Spot's eyebrow should be, feeling the metal bits snag on sensitive skin. Spot's sudden intake of breath makes the blond grin triumphantly. "Shaddup."

Race smirks daringly. "Make me."

The grin Spot gives in response is dangerous and confident, sending any lingering sense of composure Race might've had out the window instantly. "Okay," Spot says and then reclaims Race's mouth intently.

It doesn't take long for them both to collapse, boneless and exhausted, and Race is vaguely cross-eyed as he catches his breath. "Thought you'd never done this stuff 'fore," he says, slanting a smile sideways at Spot.

Spot snorts. "I ain't a fuckin' virgin," he replies. "And I been stuck in this house by myself all year. Figure what feels good for one guy gotta do somethin' for another too, right?"

"Fair point," Race concedes with a laugh. "But fuck, if ya think that's good, you just wait. Gets better. But not tonight. I'm fuckin' tired."

"'Cause you was supposed to go to sleep like three hours ago but ya won't stop talkin'," Spot says in amusement. Stretching his arm out, Spot jerks his chin in invitation. "C'mere."

"Knew you secretly liked cuddles," Race says triumphantly as he rolls to tuck himself back against Spot's side.

"Wouldja just shush and go to sleep a'ready?" says Spot, exasperated.

"Snuggle grump," Race replies, grinning into Spot's chest. The shorter boy scoffs but he wraps his arms around Race's shoulders, pulling him closer. Race is just starting to fade when something occurs to him, and he chuckles. "Hey Spotty," he starts, and Spot hums to show he's listening. "D'you tell Jack and Davey we're a thing?"

Spot makes a startled noise, his fingers stilling in their lazy pattern on the back of Race's neck, and then he huffs a laugh. "Nope, didn't come up."

Burying his face in Spot's ribs, Race dissolves into a fit of sleepy giggles. "That case, I'm sleepin' in," he says. "You imagine Jack's face if he comes to wake me up and you're here?"

"Youse such an idiot," Spot murmurs fondly, chuckling under his breath. "Go to sleep, Racer." Still giggling, Race nods and closes his eyes. Yeah, it's been a long day. Sleep sounds good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, these poor boys. It's a conversation I've planned from the beginning and I've tried to slip it in a couple times but it never felt like the right moment until this one. 
> 
> Also, because I realized I never posted the translation in previous chapters:   
> _Mio piccolo punto_ \- "my little spot"


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter softer chapter this time. We're building up into the climax now, so I wanted to give this sweet little family a moment.

A violent twitch stirs Race awake, and he groans, pressing his weight back into the furnace of warmth behind him. When the arm around his waist makes to retreat, Race grabs the wrist. " _No, rimani qui_ ," he mumbles, hugging the forearm to his chest.

There's a soft huff of air against the back of Race's neck. "English?"

"Hmm?" Race scrunches his nose and then realizes his mistake. "Oh. Said 'stop fuckin' moving, I'm comfy.'"

"Yeah, I'm bettin' that's a paraphrase," Spot responds in amusement, but he at least stops trying to pull away. Curling his arm more securely around Race's torso, Spot rests his forehead against the back of Race's neck. His body is a solid, comforting weight at Race's back, and the blond hums contentedly. "Sorry, didn't mean to wake ya."

Race chuckles softly. "You got a bad habit of sneakin' outta bed on me," he teases. "Gonna give a fella the wrong idea."

Huffing again, Spot presses a lazy kiss between Race's shoulders. "Ain't you, Racer," he says reassuringly. "Just don't sleep good."

"Bad dreams?" Race guesses.

"Light sleeper," Spot counters with a shrug. It's a cop-out and they both know it, but Race doesn't push the subject. After what they talked about last night, he can't even begin to imagine the sort of nightmares Spot must have. Grimacing sympathetically, Race tightens his grip on Spot's hand against his chest.

"M'sorry. 'Cause I was havin' an awesome dream," Race says, playfully changing the subject.

He can feel Spot smile against his skin. "Oh yeah? What 'bout?"

Grinning, Race rolls his hips back against Spot's. "Whaddya think?" he challenges when he hears Spot groan lowly. Race smirks and relaxes his weight into Spot's chest again. "I don't wanna get up."

"Don't really want ya gettin' up either," Spot responds, nuzzling his face into the curve of Race's neck.

"Pretty cuddly for a guy who whines about cuddlin'," Race points out with a laugh. Spot retaliates by pressing his hips flush against Race and nipping at his neck, drawing a breathless whine from the blond. "Ugh, not fair," Race complains. He darts a hand out to tap the screen of his phone, checking the time. "Don't wanna go deal with Ma and all this cop stuff. Can't I just have a normal day for once? Ya know, if we were normal teens, we could just stay here."

Spot chuckles. "If we was normal teens, pro'lly never would'a met."

Sighing, Race reluctantly concedes that point. If it hadn't been for his mother deserting him to escape her drug debt, Race never would've ended up in that Brooklyn alleyway for Spot to find. If Spot had never been cursed, he wouldn't have been out riding to get out of the house for a minute and he never would've cared about some random punk. When Race thinks back over it, it feels like a lifetime of little decisions and coincidences that led him to climb onto the back of Spot's motorcycle that night. So many small details and moments that seemed inconsequential at the time, so many minuscule changes that could've led them in completely different directions.

Race traces his fingers along Spot's hand on his chest, and then his curiosity drives them up toward his wrist. Turning Spot's hand over, Race brushes his thumb against the inside of the wrist there. The scar is barely visible in the weak early morning sunlight, nothing more than a pale, raised line on his olive skin that Race never would've noticed if he wasn't explicitly looking for it, so insignificant in comparison to the rest of the marks on Spot's body. Race feels his breath stick in his throat as he considers the scar. "Spot, are you-?"

"I'm fine, Racer," Spot says before he can even finish the question. "I ain't gonna do nothing, if that's what you're thinking." He flips his hand to twine their fingers together, settling their joined hands over Race's heart again. "You did a pretty good job of takin' a torch to that plan."

"Good," Race says firmly, letting out a relieved breath. Even still, he can feel the knot in his chest and he squeezes his eyes shut against the images it brings to mind. "But you were plannin' it, weren't ya? That's what you meant 'bout taking your dad down with you. You were gonna give all that stuff to the cops and then - ya know-" Race finds he can't bring himself to say the words, the terrifying truth scratching at his throat like burrs that just dig in worse the more he tries.

Spot sighs. "Yeah. Told ya the old man was gonna ice me one way or another for not goin' back to him, whether he did it himself or put out a hit if I went to the cops. I wasn't givin' the bastard the satisfaction of knowing he beat me. If I was goin' out, I was goin' on my terms."

Race rolls to face Spot, meeting the boy's dark green eyes. "But not anymore?" he asks because he needs the reassurance.

"I promised ya," Spot says with a soft smile. "Long as ya need me, I'mma do what I gotta to be there." He trails his knuckles along Race's cheek fondly. "And it's more than that too," he admits quietly, his expression suddenly uncertain. "Not that you ain't enough, that's not what I'm sayin'. Just - I dunno, there's things I wanna do, if I can. Was thinkin' about what you said, about college and all. And Jack was sayin' that all that research I did for him was good. So I was thinkin' maybe I'd do that, study law or something."

"For real?" Race asks, his face splitting into a broad grin.

"Sure, I mean, if I don't wind up in prison forever," the shorter boy responds and some of the hesitancy fades from his face at Race's reaction. "S'just an idea. It's like you said, can do college all online nowadays. And I already know a lot 'bout laws, taught myself a bunch. Was lookin' and there's companies that do legal consulting online too. It's not huge cases or anything, mostly just paperwork stuff like wills and contract law, but I could do it all and folks'd never have to see this," he gestures to his face with a grimace.

Race huffs, rolling his eyes. "Sucks to be them," he says, deliberately letting his gaze pan over Spot's face appreciatively. Instead of the scars and tattoos, Race finds his attention drawn by other details; the firm square of his jaw, the spatter of freckles on the bridge of his nose below the burns, the deep hunter green of his eyes that stands out all the bolder within the spider-web of ruptured blood vessels. "S'fine, I don't mind keeping you for myself," Race amends with a smirk.

Scoffing disbelievingly, Spot still ducks in to kiss Race warmly. "Think you must be blinder than Davey," he murmurs teasingly. He exhales. "I know I'm gonna have to get used to the staring and all, 'cause I can't stay hidin' in my house forever. Just, I don't like bein' so - obvious, ya know? Like, folks see someone like me on the streets, they's gonna remember it. All my life's been about not bein' recognized. Didn't want folks to be able to pick me outta a line-up or something if we ever got busted. Can't really do that no more."

"Yeah, maybe not," Race says with a sympathetic smile, brushing his thumb over the silver ridges on his brow. "I wouldn't know, I'm not good at bein' low-key. I like bein' the center of attention."

"Never would'a guessed," Spot responds acerbically.

Race pokes him in revenge. "Well, you're just gonna have to get used to it then so you can keep up with me," he jokes, smirking.

"Or use you as a diversion," Spot counters. "Folks so busy lookin' at you, ain't gonna notice me."

"That works," Race says with a grin. "It's a deal." He trails his fingertips languidly down Spot's torso, outlining the lay of muscle around the scattered raised marks, and groans. "I gotta get up."

"You sure?" Spot asks, arching an eyebrow, and he hooks a leg over Race's to tug him closer. Race sucks in a sharp breath when their torsos meet, instinctively arching into the warm pressure.

"That's cheatin'," Race protests without pulling away. "I got shit to do, Spotty. I gotta go see my ma, and I gotta talk to Jack 'bout what we're doing. And my audition's in eight days, and I didn't get to practice at all yesterday. I gotta rehearse."

Spot spreads a line of slow kisses along Race's collarbone unconcernedly. "Still early," he points out when he reaches the hollow of his throat. "Got time. And ya know, youse real tense. I know somethin' that can help ya unwind a bit."

Well, hard to argue with that logic...

It's more than an hour later, the sun fully risen and the sounds of the city burst to life outside, before hunger finally motivates them to leave the bedroom. Race isn't surprised to find Davey sitting at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of coffee as usual. There are heavy shadows beneath his unseeing eyes, and his typical book is laying, ignored, at his elbow. Still, he manages a smile in their direction. "Morning," Davey greets.

"You look tired," Race says sympathetically as he trails Spot into the kitchen, where the shorter boy starts pouring two cups of coffee.

"Late night, lot on my mind," Davey says, shrugging, but something pained flickers across his face. It doesn't take a genius to guess what that means, and Race winces; sounds like his conversation with Jack didn't go so well then.

Race murmurs a thanks as Spot hands him a mug of black coffee, then heads for the table, blowing on the steaming drink. "You know he'd tell ya if he could," he says in an undertone. "We all would."

Davey grimaces and stiffens, before shaking it off. "Speaking of secrets," he says, and an expression of faux-innocent curiosity slips onto his face, "what I really want to know is how long this," he makes a vague gesture between Race and Spot, who is crossing to the table, "has been going on?"

Startled, Race exchanges a quick glance with Spot. "Whaddya mean?" Spot asks, slowly stirring his coffee.

Across from them, Davey grins and huffs a laugh. "I'm blind, not dumb," he replies. "I've known something was going on for a while, but it's changed recently. There's something different between you two." He pauses, and his smile slants toward mischief. "Also, I sleep in the room across the hall, remember? I know for a fact Race doesn't snore, but there was definitely some snoring coming from that room this morning."

"Toldja you snore," Race hisses triumphantly at Spot. The other boy glowers at him over the rim of his mug.

"I'm happy for you guys," Davey says with a soft smile. "Although I don't know why you felt the need to keep it secret."

"We didn't mean to," Race admits, chuckling sheepishly. "Only happened the same night all the shit with my ma, so..."

Davey hums in understanding. "You had other things on your mind," he finishes, nodding. "That's fair." He traces a finger around the rim of his mug, brow furrowed thoughtfully. "Sorry, I didn't mean to sound like I was accusing you of anything. Guess I'm just sorta sensitive about that right now."

"None us like leaving you outta this, Dave," Spot says resolutely. "Ya know that. It's - complicated."

"So Jack told me," Davey says. He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "I know that you supposedly can't talk about what's going on, he told me there are legal confidentiality things, just - whatever you three are wrapped up in, just tell me it's legal, right? You're not putting yourselves in danger, right? You're being safe?"

Race gives a short laugh. "It's 'bout as legit as it's possible to be," he assures the blind man.

"And we're not gonna be any less safe than we us'lly are," Spot points out with a grimace. "Ya know, considerin'."

Davey winces, but he grudgingly nods an acceptance. "Fair point." Taking a deep breath, Davey seems to deflate slightly as he lets it out through his nose. "Okay. As long as you guys are being smart and being safe, I won't get in the way of whatever you've got going on. And I'm gonna trust that if anything happens and you two need me for anything, you'll let me know, right?"

"Course," Race agrees instantly.

Spot surprises them all by tentatively reaching across the table to set his hand on top of Davey's. "Everythin' you done for me, you know I ain't gonna do nothin' that'd put any you guys in danger," the shorter boy says solemnly. "And promise, no more secrets. Anythin' you wanna know that I ain't gonna get arrested for telling ya, just ask. 'Cause we's - we's family."

This time Davey's smile is genuine, and he slides his other hand off his coffee cup to settle it over Spot's. "Family," he agrees, and there's the faintest catch of emotion in his voice. "Thank you. I don't like all this secrecy and lies, but if you say it's necessary, I'm going to trust you." As he squeezes Spot's hand between his, Davey's smile suddenly flickers. Frowning in concentration, he brushes his fingertips over the back of Spot's hand, following the raised scar on his skin. "Is-?" Davey pauses, shaking his head. "Sorry, I've just never - forget I said anything."

As Davey moves to pull his hands back, Spot grabs his fingers to stop him. "S'okay," Spot says.

"Sorry, I just don't know what I was expecting," Davey says nervously. "I mean, I've heard the others say before, but I guess it's not the same as seeing it. Or, you know, as close as I get to seeing things."

Licking his lips, Spot casts a quick sideways glance at Race and takes a steadying breath. He moves Davey's hand back to rest on Spot's wrist over a runic scar. "You can see, then, if you wanna," he permits.

"You sure?" Davey asks hesitantly.

"No secrets," Spot responds, determined.

Race smiles, recognizing the importance of the moment. Davey is the one person Spot can be unmarked to, the one person in his life who hasn't seen the scars and damage that will make him stand out to anyone else, and now Spot is giving that up. It almost feels a little like a sign that Spot is accepting himself by letting Davey know, acknowledging that this is who is he is now, and the people close to him will accept that.

Picking up his coffee, Race stands. "I'm gonna go down and get some rehearsin' in," he says when Spot glances up at him. "Let you two talk." He drops a warm kiss against the side of Spot's neck, squeezing his shoulder supportively, and then slips out of the kitchen to give them some privacy.

Stepping into the makeshift dance studio downstairs is like coming home, a warm familiarity wrapping around him as he gazes around at the scuffed floorboards and slightly off-center barre. It's been a long time since Race has felt like there was a place in the world that was _his_ ; probably since before his Pa died, and he had the little bedroom in their family home, the one with the hand-painted name on the door and the notches in the doorframe to track his height. The studio provides that same feeling of comfort and safety, a place for him where things make sense, and he knows who he is and what he's doing.

Race grins and sets his half-finished coffee on the countertop. The baggy basketball shorts and tee he tugged on this morning will work for dancing, so he immediately starts into his stretches, feeling the tension and inactivity from the day before slowly ease out of his muscles. He slips back into the rhythms and patterns like a second skin, losing himself in it until he feels centered for the first time in days.

"Damn, that's so cool."

Race finishes the series of leaps with a lofty  _tour jete_ and lands to see Jack leaning on the doorframe, grinning. "Yeah?" Race asks, tugging his shirt up to wipe the sweat from his face.

"Seriously," Jack agrees. "I mean, Spot told me you were good, but fuck." He smirks. "You're such a mess the rest the time, but that was cool."

Snorting a laugh, Race shakes his head. "Really good at those backhand compliments, Jacky," he remarks.

"Can't have you getting an ego," Jack replies with a shrug. "How you holdin' up, kid? Get some sleep?"

"Lots more than you, looks like," Race says, taking in Jack's disheveled hair and the rings beneath his eyes. "You okay?"

Jack chuckles, folding his arms lazily. "Yeah, just busy," he says. "Been up since before dawn getting things sorted out with the bosses and all. It's a lotta stuff to coordinate, couldn't do it all by phone so I had to head into the station which is a whole mess itself, but it's been good. Arranging stuff for your mom and you, and I think the lieutenant almost cried when I told him we got Spot on board now." Jack drags a hand down his face and smiles dazedly. "Fuck, we actually pull this whole thing off, this is gonna be big. We're gonna make a real difference out there, make this place better for a lotta folks."

Race exhales and slumps against the opposite side of the door. "Kinda doesn't feel real," he admits. Race picks distractedly at his cuticles for a second, summoning up the courage to ask. "Jack, if my ma says no, what's gonna happen to her?"

"I can't be sure, honestly," Jack says with a sympathetic grimace. "According to the reports, she had more heroin with her when the EMTs found her. It'll be up to the detectives and the DA if they want to screen charges for possession. And after that, there's no saying."

"She gets arrested, Weasel's gonna know where she is," Race says softly, the thought tightening around his chest like a vice. "He'll go after her."

"It's possible," Jack concedes.

Carding a hand through his hair, Race sighs. "And what about me?" At Jack's raised eyebrow, he elaborates, "If she says no, what'll happen to me? They'll take me away, huh? Put me in foster care or something?"

"That's one option," Jack agrees, wincing. "But Racer, you gotta know, the offer still stands for you even if your mom says no. You help us put Weasel away, testify about how he tried to kill you, and we'll protect you."

"But I won't be able to go on tour if I get this spot with the ballet," Race says, and Jack's wince is answer enough. "Where'd I go? I mean, I can take care of myself, but if I don't get that job, I don't got money. I don't want to get stuck in foster care or something, but I'm sixteen. They won't just lemme alone, will they?"

"You'd need to be put into protective custody, yeah," Jack says. "It wouldn't be State foster care, 'cause that's not secure enough. OCFS would have to help us arrange a safe place for you to stay, someone to make sure you're taken care of and all." Jack rubs the back of his neck uncertainly. "I also - I mean, the boss hasn't approved it yet, but we've pitched the idea - well, we're trying to swing it that you could stay with me if you want. At least while the case is going, you know."

Race's heart leaps in his chest. "For real?" he asks hopefully. "You'd do that?"

The nerves wash out of Jack's face, and he smiles. "Sure, makes sense. Not like I'm not used to ya, and that way you'd be with someone I know's gonna keep you safe." He smirks and adds, "Besides, I'm getting damn attached to your cooking. It'd gimme more time to pick up some tips."

"You can get all the tips you want, you ain't ever gonna get better at cooking," Race teases, laughing. Jack scoffs and shoves at his shoulder playfully. Still, it feels like a knot has loosened in Race's chest at this possibility. "Okay. Even if Ma says no, I'll do it if I can stay with you. That'd be okay."

Jack grins fondly. "Knew you actually liked me," he jokes. Letting out a breath, he levers his weight up off the doorframe. "Okay, well that's you taken care of. I've got someone set to meet us at the hospital later, so you ready to go see if we can get your mom on board?" Race nods. "Cool. Then go get dressed. You're all gross and sweaty."

In retaliation, Race wraps Jack in a tight hug and then darts for the stairs, Jack's squawks of disgust chasing him up the steps.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be the last chapter before the climax, but I just could not get this chapter condensed down into a decent size. Race has some feelings and he was determined to let it be known. 
> 
> TW: Race deals with some serious feels. I might've cried a bit writing it...

"Oh, so Jack..." Race says, glancing across to the other side of the car. Jack's eyes flick away from the road long enough to raise an eyebrow, prompting him. "Sorta forgot to mention a thing before," Race continues, fighting back his smile, "you know, with everything going on and all, but Spot and I are kinda a _thing_ now."

The car jerks slightly as Jack looks over in surprise, and then he laughs, smacking a palm against the steering wheel. "About fuckin' time," he cheers, grinning. "Jesus, I was startin' to think you two would never figure your shit out."

Race snorts. "Yeah, you're one to talk," he drawls sarcastically. He catches Jack's wince from the corner of his eye and remembers that Davey's apparently mad at Jack right now. "Oh, right. Sorry."

"S'fine, kid," Jack says. He sighs, carding a hand through his hair. "Thing is, I wasn't expecting someone like Davey when I went into this. And it's not that I don't wanna start somethin' with him. Fuck, when he asked way back, near killed me to say no."

"Wait, he asked you out?" Race asks, brow furrowed. "He told me he didn't wanna start anything with you while you work together."

A rueful, pained smirk crosses Jack's face. "Probably 'cause that's what I told him when he asked," he admits. "Was the only excuse I could think of without completely shuttin' him down. Think he could tell it was BS, but he was cool about it, just said to let him know if I changed my mind."

Race leans back in the lumpy Honda seat, contemplating Jack's profile. "So I don't get it. If you both wanna be together, why aren't you?"

"Partly 'cause I didn't wanna put him in danger," Jack says wearily. "There was always that risk of my cover gettin' blown, and I didn't want to give these folks reason to suspect Davey knew anything. But mostly it's just - I feel like I'm lyin' to him. All this undercover stuff, not being able to tell him the truth about who I am, it just don't feel like a good place to start something, ya know? Not something real."

"Oh, yeah, that makes sense," Race says. He hasn't thought about it, really, the effect that having to always keep up his cover story must've had on Jack for all this time. "That must suck, having to lie to everyone. But it's almost over, right? You can tell him after you're not undercover, and then it'll be okay."

Jack chuckles softly. "Yeah, I dunno 'bout that," he says. "Not sure he's gonna be able to forgive me for this one. And I wouldn't blame him, either. Lyin' to someone for a year is kinda a big deal."

"I'd blame him," Race says resolutely. Jack shoots him another questioning look. "I mean, don't get me wrong, Davey's great and we're totally friends. But if he thinks you not telling the truth 'bout your job so you can save lives is a reason not to date you, that's stupid. Besides, it's not like you're a whole different person. You're still the same guy you've been all summer, as far as I can tell. Just with a cooler job now."

Lips slanting up into a grin, Jack reaches over and Race yelps as he ducks out of the way before Jack can ruffle his hair again. "You know, you're actually pretty smart sometimes," Jack says.

"Better be after all the studyin' I been doing all summer," Race replies with a laugh. "Done more homework and reading this summer than I usually do all school year normally."

"But hey, was I right about those Harry Potter books or what?" Jack interjects.

Race chuckles. "Okay, yeah, they're pretty good," he admits. "Even though they're hella fuckin' long. I'm gonna be twenty before I finish 'em all, I'm still only on the fourth one now."

"Oh dude, but that's when shit starts getting crazy," Jack says enthusiastically.

They manage to pass the rest of the drive to the hospital talking about Harry Potter, arguing back and forth about favorite characters and what house they'd be in if they went to Hogwarts. Race is fervently countering Jack's comment that Race would be in Slytherin - "You're super ambitious and proud" met with "But they're the _bad guys_!" - when they walk into the hospital lobby.

"Jack Kelly, is that you? You better get yourself over here and gimme a hug."

Jack's face immediately brightens as he glances over toward the waiting room, where a curvy black woman has risen from a chair. She looks polished and put-together, wearing a well-cut suit that's softened by a pale lavender blouse, but her smile is bright and warm as she opens her arms. Grinning, Jack crosses over to pull her into a hug. "Hey, Miss Meds," he greets affectionately.

"It's good to see you again, sugar," the woman replies. She steps back, cupping Jack's chin in one hand to get a good look, and clicks her tongue. "What is with this hair? You look like a bum."

"That's sorta the point," Jack says, laughing. "Don't worry, it'll be cut soon enough." Freeing his chin from her grasp, Jack turns and gestures for Race to join them. "Racer, come meet Miss Medda Larkin."

Miss Larkin turns her smile on him now, her eyes sparkling kindly. "It's nice to finally meet you, Antonio," she says. "Especially after how much Jack couldn't stop raving about you."

Jack snorts, rolling his eyes. "Race, remember how I told you I have a friend in OCFS?" he says and then nods pointedly toward Medda. "She's here to help mediate discussions with your mom, since any choice she makes will obviously affect you, and you're still a minor."

"So you're the one who's gonna decide if they take me away from my ma?" Race concludes, shuffling a half-step closer to Jack's side.

"I'm going to make sure that your best interests are considered," Medda corrects gently. "No matter what the outcome. I am going to do everything I can to help you and your mother, but whether you remain in your mother's custody is largely up to her at this point."

Race nods, licking his lips. A thought that's been dancing in the back of his mind surges forward again, and he clears his throat to ask, "And there's no way I can get a say in that? 'Cause I don't wanna go into foster care, but I'm tired of my whole life gettin' messed up by her stuff. Ain't there that thing where a kid can sorta, I dunno, disown their parents?"

Medda's eyebrows jump, and she exchanges a quick look with Jack. "You mean emancipation? Well, yes, that's another route you could pursue, but Antonio, you should understand that that choice would have repercussions. You and your mother would no longer be legally attached to each other, would no longer have any familial rights to each other in the eyes of the law.

"And to become emancipated, there has to be a good reason. Now your current situation, as I understand, it could certainly qualify as a danger that would prove emancipation in your best interest, but this would most likely also result in the courts seeking to pursue charges against your mother for child endangerment and abandonment. So just make sure that you're positive in your decision if that's the road you want to take."

The weight of that settles over him, and Race lets out a slow breath, head spinning. "Right, yeah," he murmurs distractedly. Could he really do that? He wants to be able to live his life without worrying about his ma's problems, but could he actually go through with something that would probably get her tossed in jail?

"Hey, look at me," Jack says, hands firm and grounding on Race's shoulders. He waits until Race meets his gaze before continuing. "It's gonna be okay, kid. We're not gonna let it get to that point. That's why we got the plan, remember?" Right, the plan, the conversation points they played out at the start of their drive from Brooklyn. Race licks his lips, and Jack must read the uncertainty in his face because he promptly folds Race into a hug. "Remember: no matter what, I got your back. You and me, right?"

"You and me," Race agrees gratefully. He takes advantage of the fact his face is shielded from view to hastily rub his eyes and then straightens with a deep breath. "Right, yeah, I'm good. Let's do this." He turns for the elevators, but not fast enough to miss the knowing looks that Jack and Miss Medda exchange.

"So, Jack, how's Charlie?" Miss Medda asks conversationally to break the tension.

Jack laughs. "Shooting up like a weed," he says, his voice taking on a faint tenderness. "Grown another two inches over the summer. Almost outgrown his braces, gonna have to get new ones 'fore he goes back to school."

"He keeps that up, he'll be taller than you before he even hits puberty," Medda says, amused, and Jack gives a noise of mock-indignation. "And he's starting fifth grade this year?" The idle chatter gives Race something to focus on, and he manages to keep his nerves at bay until they're at the front desk of ICU, where Jack and Medda both flash their ID cards to be admitted. A nurse lets them through, and Race leads the way to the door, where a familiar uniformed officer is standing guard.

"Morning, Antonio," Officer De La Guerra says kindly, and he manages to return her smile, if a little stiffly.

"No way. _Jojo_?" Jack says, tone awed and bemused.

Officer De La Guerra's gaze slides passed Race to land on Jack, and after a moment, her face brightens in realization. "Jack Kelly? My God, I almost didn't recognize you. What are you-?" Her eyes jump from Jack to Race to the closed door behind her, and her lips part on a breath of surprise. "I knew it," she says, grinning. "When I heard, I told them, 'not the Jack Kelly I know.' I _knew_ it had to be something else."

"Whoa, easy Jo, don't go jumping to conclusions," Jack says, holding his hands up, but there's still a smile playing at the edge of his lips. "I'm just here as a concerned citizen. Antonio's a friend, I'm just lookin' out for him."

The officer quickly wipes off her expression of shock, summoning up a look of professionalism. "Of course, I understand. It's just - It's really good to see you again, Cowboy."

Beaming, Jack says, "I'm gonna hug you," before doing just that, wrapping the thin Latina in a crushing embrace. "Good to see you too, Jojo. Oh, and I guess you've met Tony, right?"

"We met yesterday," Officer De La Guerra says. "You look like you finally got some sleep. I'm glad."

"Jo and I went through Academy together," Jack explains. "The only one in our class who scored better than me on the shooting range."

Officer De La Guerra laughs. "You'd probably have gotten higher scores if you weren't scared of the gun." She casts a conspiratorial smile at Race. "The first time he fired one, he screamed and dropped it."

"I did not _scream_ ," Jack counters petulantly over the sound of Race's laughter. "Was just surprised. They're louder than they seem on TV. Now stop embarrassing me in front of the kid. I've managed to convince him I'm not a total train wreck."

"Eh," Race says, wavering a hand in front of him in a so-so gesture.

Jack snorts and smacks Race across the back of the head lightly. "Why don't you go in and say hi to your mom? We'll give you guys a minute to catch up, 'kay?" Race nods, moving toward the hospital room door, hearing Jack say behind him, "When'd you transfer out to Staten? Last I heard you were in Queens."

"I was, but then I met this guy and, well, you know how the story goes," Officer De La Guerra responds with an almost girlish giggle. "Henry's from West Brighton, so it just made sense-"

Race slips through the door into the room, his eyes darting immediately to the bed. Ma is awake, watching a tiny television screen set in the corner of the room, but her gaze snaps over at the sound of the door. "Antonio," she says, smiling. She clicks off the TV and pats the edge of the mattress in invitation.

" _Buongiorno_ , Mamma," Race says, walking over to perch on the side of the bed. He catches the way she flinches slightly at the Italian and something sharp lodges in his chest. Ah, so apparently they're back to that again. Forcing on a brighter smile, Race takes her hand. "How're you feeling? Did you sleep?"

"Fine, fine, yes," Ma says almost dismissively. "Have you seen the doctor? Did she say when I can leave?"

"You can't just leave, Ma," Race says, frowning. "Doc said they'll move ya outta ICU, but you gotta stay a little longer, make sure you're okay."

Ma clicks her tongue disapprovingly. "I'm fine. And we can't afford this, Tony. Hospitals are expensive."

Wincing, Race feels his nerves well up before he can stop them, and he snaps, "Yeah, well so's a funeral." Ma winces, averting her gaze, and she makes to withdraw her hand. "Wait, I'm sorry," Race says, tightening his grip on her thin fingers. "I just - All'a this is a lot to deal with, and I'm stressed out. I just want ya to get better, Ma."

Her expression softening, Ma reaches out to pet his curls fondly. "I know. You're such a good boy, always looking out for me." She sighs and casts a glance at the door. "Your police friend, is he-?"

"Yeah, he's here," Race says. "And so's a lady from CPS." Ma grimaces, her eyes dropping. "Ya knew they'd get called, Ma. She's nice, though. They're tryna help."

"We don't _need_ their help," she says bitterly. "Should just leave. We can go far away. We will be safe there."

"I'm not going anywhere," Race counters resolutely. Ma's gaze jumps to his face, her brow furrowing. "I got a good thing here. My friends are here, and Spot's here, and the best ballet jobs. I'm not runnin' away from my problems. So I'm takin' the cops' offer."

Ma blanches, her other hand closing around his as well. "Antonio, he will _kill_ you."

"He a'ready wants to do that, remember?" Race shoots back. "That's kinda my point."

A soft rap against the door stops their conversation there, and a second later, Jack opens the door. He offers Ma a friendly smile despite her suspicious glare. "Mornin', Mrs. Higgins," he greets. "You look like you're feeling better." He steps in and holds the door open for Medda before closing it behind them with a soft click.

"Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Higgins," Medda says politely, offering out her hand. Ma accepts it, but her lips are pursed as if the gesture pains her. "My name's Medda Larkin, and I'm a caseworker with the Office of Child and Family Services. I'm here in conjunction with NYPD to speak with you in regards to your family's welfare."

"To take my son away from me," Ma rebuts, eyes narrowed.

"Mamma," Race chides angrily.

Medda looks unphased by the aggressiveness, her smile perpetually polite. "Your custody of Antonio depends entirely on how you choose to proceed from here, Mrs. Higgins."

"Have you given any more thought to cooperating with the police investigation?" Jack asks, sliding seamlessly back into police mode, settling into a parade rest so easily that Race wonders if he even notices he does it. "NYPD has reached an agreement with the DA's office for you: in exchange for your testimony against Richard Wiesel, all charges for possession of controlled substances will be dropped, and you will be admitted to a state-funded rehabilitation program."

"It's a _very_ good offer, Mrs. Higgins," Medda interjects. "Your admission will be sponsored by our office, so it will cost you nothing. It's an excellent program that will help you get your life and your health back."

Race glances between the two professionals hopefully. "They'll help her get clean?" he asks.

"And what will happen to Tony while I'm there?" Ma asks.

Jack clears his throat. "Regardless of your decision, Tony is going to be placed into protective custody since he's chosen to testify in our case," he says. "But if you agree as well, then we will make every effort to ensure that you two are given as much time together as possible. Tony will be able to visit you while in rehab as often as you like, and once you've completed the program, Miss Larkin's office will help you both with settling back into a normal life."

"No one wants to separate you from your son," Medda says steadily. "My job is to offer any resources we can to help families stay together and healthy. However, I also must ensure that a child's best interests are taken into consideration, and as things stand currently, I'm not seeing that Antonio is safe in your care."

"He is _my_ son," Ma snaps, color rising in her cheeks, and her grip on Race's hand becomes almost painful. "You aren't going to take him from me."

Which is the moment when Race's patience finally breaks. Jerking his hand free, Race stands to face off with her. "They ain't _takin_ ' me, Ma. They can't fuckin' take me from you when you aren't around to take from! You're the one that _left_!"

"Racer," Jack says softly, both a warning and a reassurance.

Exhaling, Race forces his volume to lower, but he doesn't look away from his ma's stricken expression. "You just fuckin' left me," he says, voice thick as he tries to fight off the well of emotion blocking his throat. "You left me all alone. What was I s'posed to do? Even if Weasel hadn't come after me, what'd ya expect me to do all on my own? I don't got money or a job or nothin'. I'm sixteen, and you're all the family I got, and you just _left me_."

"I was going to come back for you," Ma says, eyes streaming. "I told you that. I just had to get him off my back, and then I'd send for ya."

"And what was I supposed to do 'til then?" Race presses. "Starve and hope for the best? And what about after? What'd we done if ya _did_ come back? Take off and start over? 'Cept it wouldn't be startin' over, 'cause you'd just do it again. Just like every time we moved and ya said things'd get better now and they _never_ did. So I'd be losin' everything I got here, all my life and my friends, you draggin' me all over and shootin' up again whenever ya felt like it 'cause that's what you do."

Race stops, swallowing, and he wipes furiously at the tears that have escaped. "So they ain't taking me away, 'cause I _want_ this. I wanna not be afraid anymore, and I wanna get to stay in one place 'stead of moving all the time, and I wanna get to be a kid for what li'l bit of that I got left. And Ma, I want you to be part'a that too, I do, really. But I told ya, I can't do this," he gestures wildly around the hospital room, "anymore. I want _my_ ma back. So just - I just-" Race trails off, carding a hand through his hair in frustration. "Whatever, you do what youse gonna do anyway. I just - I need air."

Turning on his heel and ignoring the voices calling after him, Race charges out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PSA from the Author: Race's opinions on Hogwarts Houses are entirely his own and do not reflect those of the author! It's a common misconception among people who are not super-invested Potterheads that Slytherin = bad. (Rest assured, future!Davey will rectify this problem.)


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *shifty eyes*  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> *hides*

Race forgoes the elevator, instead sprinting down the stairs because he can't stop moving - knows that as soon as he stops, he's going to lose it. So he runs until he hits the lobby, and then he runs out of the doors, and then he runs a lap around the perimeter of the building just so he doesn't have to stop.

There's a reason they call him Racetrack. A Higgins through and through, his first response to anything remotely uncomfortable is always to _run_.

It's this thought that finally pulls him up short, coming to an abrupt standstill in the middle of the sidewalk somewhere on the south side of the building. Race stands on the little path that curves around the hospital, entire body shaking as he grapples with that perverse irony. All this time he's hated his ma for running away from her problems, but he's doing the same thing. He's done the same thing his entire life, running away to the safety of his dancing whenever things get hard. He's running because it's easier than facing the moment when his ma inevitably chooses her escape over him once again.

"Race? Race! Jesus, there ya are!" He doesn't realize he's fallen to his knees until Jack crouches in front of him, hands gripping Race's shoulders and face lined with concern. "Scared the shit outta us, kid." The officer surveys him, taking in Race's lost, broken expression, and his eyes instantly soften. "C'mere, bud."

Race ducks gratefully against Jack's chest, trusting Jack to keep him safe until he can think straight again. Making soft, shushing noises, Jack wraps his arms around Race and rubs a hand along his spine. They're in a protective bubble, Jack's presence giving Race a barrier between his buzzing mind and the rest of the world, a safe place to process the feelings spinning inside his skull.

Distractedly, a little voice in the back of Race's head wishes Spot was here - his calm, steady presence always seems to make it easier for Race to quiet the noise in his head.

Race has no idea how long they're hunkered there in the middle of the sidewalk, Jack shielding him as Race struggles to rein in the anxiety burning through his veins like fire. He's still shaking when Race finally manages to get his breathing back under control, and in the wake of his nerves, Race feels shame and guilt sneak up on him.

"Shit," Race hisses, pressing his forehead into Jack's strong shoulder. "I fucked up, huh? We had plans. All that plannin' and I - fuck, sorry, I just-"

"Hey, don't even," Jack cuts over him firmly. "You got nothing to apologize for, Racer. You were right. You've been through a helluva time, and it ain't fair to not consider your feelings in all this too." There's a pause, and then Jack continues more somberly, "Think even I wasn't really understandin' what you've been through. So _I'm_ sorry, Race. Sorry if it feels like I've been pushin' you into something here. I was tryna help, but I didn't think what all this has gotta feel like for you. I can't - shit, I mean, I can't even _begin_ to understand how you're feelin', honestly."

"Just - feels like she doesn't _care_ ," Race says, voice cracking. "And I just don't get it. I don't get what happened to make her stop carin'. 'Cause I kinda wish I could stop carin' but I can't, and how can she just stop? I thought parents are supposed to be the ones that _always_ care forever. That's what they say, isn't it? That no matter what, you always got family to fall back on when things are bad."

"Too bad the real world isn't always that black and white, huh?" Jack says sympathetically.

Race winces, abruptly remembering who he's talking to. "Oh, right, sorry," he murmurs, grudgingly extracting himself from Jack's grip to dry his eyes. "I forgot you don't, uh, you know."

Jack smiles and shrugs. "Like I said, I can't begin to understand what you're going through," he says. "I grew up so used to the idea that you can't rely on the adults to take care and protect you that I sometimes forget that's not how it is for most kids. That's how it should be, too; a kid should have that protection from the bad things and should know that there's always going to be someone there if you need them. And you're completely justified in feeling betrayed that she's not putting you first, 'cause that's a good parents' job."

Race sighs and shakes his head, trying to pull on a semblance of composure again. "I'm just _tired_ ," he admits. "Of all the excuses and broken promises and 'it'll be different this time,' ya know?"

"Course," Jack agrees. "Christ, kid, I wouldn't wish this shit on anyone, and you've been dealing with it all on your own for so long."

"Someone had to," Race points out wearily. "We didn't have no one else. I had to or no one would. And, I dunno - think I kept hopin' that if I could just help out long enough for her to get over feelin' sad, she'd get better and we could be normal again."

"But it's not _your_ responsibility to handle all that," Jack says, something sad in his gaze. "That's not fair to put it all on you. You're just a kid. And I know you wanna help her get better, but you can't help a person who doesn't _want_ help or doesn't think there's something wrong. This is your mom's problem, and in the end, _she's_ gonna have to be the one to choose to fix it."

The familiarity in the statement makes Race's lips twitch. "Ya sound like Davey," he says, amused. "He was tellin' me the same kinda thing."

"Yeah, well, he'd know, wouldn't he?" Jack replies with a huff. Race glances up, confusion furrowing his brow, and Jack's eyes widen in realization. "Oh, shit, he didn't..."

Scowling, Race slowly pieces together the information and all the little clues he's gotten into a vague idea. Davey said that his own family has its problems too, and he seems to understand how Race feels about his ma so perfectly. "Wait, is Davey's ma a junkie too?" he asks, perplexed.

Jack grimaces and drags a hand down his face. "His dad," he corrects, deflating slightly. "He was in that same accident when Dave went blind, guess it completely busted up his legs. Went through shit tons of surgeries to get better, but he got kinda hooked on the pain pills during all that. He's been in and outta rehab for years. But if anyone asks, I didn't tell ya that, you did your Googling thing."

"That's where Davey goes when he leaves every other weekend, huh?" Race guesses.

"Half the time, yeah, other half he goes to visit the rest his family," Jack says. "The rest of them don't talk to his dad much anymore - gave up after one too many relapses, I guess - but Davey still checks up on him. Likes to make sure he's doin' okay, still goin' to his NA meetings and seein' his doc. I think he feels guilty, sorta, since it all came from the accident. Like he's responsible for making sure his dad gets better since his dad was there so much to help him adjust to bein' blind even though he was hurtin' too."

"So, basically, exactly what he told me _not_ to do?" Race says wryly.

Chuckling, Jack rubs the back of his neck and smirks. "Yeah, well, you know how us grown-ups are. It's all 'do as I say, not as I do.'"

"Never really thought of you as a grown-up," Race teases, and Jack snorts, rolling his eyes. Letting out a breath, Race scrubs his hands over his face in an attempt to hide the last traces of his breakdown. "M'kay, I'm good. Guess we should move outta the middle the sidewalk. Folks are starin'."

"Since when've you been shy?" Jack responds, grinning. "You love being the center of attention."

"Only when I look cool, not when I've been havin' a big gay meltdown," Race says, blushing self-consciously even as he tries to play it off. Jack snorts. "That, and the whole thing where I got a drug lord puttin' a price on my head's made me a li'l paranoid."

Jack grimaces, nodding in understanding, even as that bright flash of determined fury sparks in his eyes for a second. "Good point," he says. "Sounds like time for some R&R, and I was gettin' hungry anyway. You wanna head home?"

"But Ma-" Race starts, frowning.

"You've done what you can, kiddo," Jack says, solid and encouraging. "You said your piece; she's got her options. There's not really much more you can do 'cept wait for her to decide. So now's time to think about what's gonna be best for _you_. If you really wanna go back up there and talk it out with her, you can do that, and I'll totally have your back. But if you'd rather go home, even if it's just for a little break, that's perfectly okay too."

Squeezing his eyes shut, Race considers it. His conscience is telling him to get back in there and take care of his ma. What kind of son is he to just leave her when she's in the hospital? If he doesn't look after her, who will? The other part of him - a voice in his head that sounds oddly like Davey, actually - says that there's nothing he can do for her right now apart from keep her company. All he'll do is wind up yelling at her again, probably, his frayed nerves not able to put on a brave face for long if she starts in on her usual excuses.

Really, Race feels like shit, and the only thing he can think of that will make it better is Spot's sarcastic jabs and Davey's mother-henning and Jack's excitable distractions.

"I wanna go home."

Jack nods decisively. "Okay, let's go." He stands and holds out a hand to help Race up, slinging his arm across Race's shoulders once he's upright. There's no expectation or judgment in Jack's face, just a casual, quiet acceptance. A few people cast them bemused looks as they walk back around to the front of the hospital and Race figures they probably look weird; Race in his skinny jeans and obviously having cried recently while Jack has one arm around Race and the other hand is picking at a patch of dried paint on his standard flannel button-up.

At the doors to the hospital, Jack pauses and then digs out his car keys. "I'm gonna run upstairs and let Medda know what's up, okay?" he says, pressing the keyring into Race's hand. "Go ahead and get settled in, I'll be just a minute."

"Can I drive?" Race asks, eyebrows jumping eagerly.

Laughing, Jack shakes his head. "Sure, soon as you got a license," he agrees. "And don't mess with my music," he calls over his shoulder as he strides toward the hospital entrance.

Yeah, that's a challenge if Race's ever heard it...

"Oh good God, you've gotta be kiddin' me," Jack moans when he slides into the driver's seat, glowering at the car stereo like it personally offended him. "There's no way you can seriously _like_ this shit."

Race chuckles where he's sprawled lazily in the passenger seat. Truthfully, no, he hates this chirpy, synthesized pop music as much as Jack's expression suggests he does, but listening to it for the last ten painful minutes is totally worth it for Jack's horror-stricken reaction. "Better than your hillbilly music," Race jabs playfully.

"That's literally not true in any sense of the word," Jack counters, turning the volume down. "Just for that, I'm breaking out the old-school stuff. Prepare yourself for the wonder of Merle Haggard, kiddo." He pulls out his phone to plug it into the stereo and snorts when he unlocks the screen. "Looks like Dave blind-dialed me," he says in reply to Race's curious hum. "Got a missed call but I didn't even hear it ring."

"Oh, yeah, he's done that to me 'fore," Race says, smirking. Being blind, Davey's not the most tech-savvy person, and he sometimes accidentally calls a person and then hangs up a second later when he realizes what he's done. "He did it once during one of our classes, called someone random, but they ach'lly picked up that first ring. Only time I've ever heard Davey say 'fuck.'"

Jack laughs. "Very nice," he says approvingly. He taps onto a playlist, and the soft, plucky strains of guitar and fiddle replace the pulsing techno-pop. Content, Jack drops his phone into the cupholder and turns the ignition over.

Neither of them speaks for a minute until they've gotten out of the hospital lot and back onto the road. Then Jack clears his throat quietly. "So, uh, I know you wanna take a step back from it all, but thought you should know, it seems like something you said got through to your mom," Jack says, hesitant beneath the forced casualness. "She was talkin' to Medda 'bout the rehab program when I got there."

Biting his lip, Race rolls that concept over in his head. It's a hard idea to wrap his brain around, honestly. After her firm insistence that she didn't need help, that she doesn't trust the officials, it just doesn't seem real that she'd actually cooperate. Race wants to believe that maybe she took what he said to heart, that's she finally realized what her drugs have done to his life, but it's just - scary to get his hopes up again.

"That's good," Race says, resting his forehead against the window and watching the buildings pass by. "I hope she does it."

"Me too," Jack responds, and then he lets the topic drop.

Two blocks later, Jack starts humming along with the music, and a block after that, he's singing. Jack's not a great singer, but he makes up for it in enthusiasm, throwing himself in the twangy country ballads like he's in the middle of a sold-out stadium instead of midday traffic. It's the same way he sings when he's painting or cleaning, carefree and energetic, and Race grins at the window as the familiarity settles him.

Jack starts cajoling Race into joining him as they cross the Bridge back into Brooklyn, trying to drag him into the songs despite Race's insistence that he doesn't know the words. When Jack doesn't listen, nudging and bullying Race with every round of the chorus, Race decides on a different tactic: he starts making up his own, far more creative lyrics.

"Blasphemy!" Jack protests when Race descends into a fit of giggles at his new - and far improved, in his opinion - chorus to _Man in Black_. "You dirty li'l brat, how dare you defile Johnny like that? The man is a musical God." Beneath his outrage, it's clear that Jack's struggling to keep a straight face.

"Ew, isn't he dead? So _not_ defiling a dead guy," Race replies, earning him another smack from the driver's seat. "How do you like this guy anyway? This stuff's all depressing."

"It's not depressing, it's _real_ ," Jack argues. "He sings about real problems and stuff. Bein' poor and strugglin' and tryna survive in a hard world. It's - fuck, what's that word? - you know, when your feelings relate and all."

"Cathartic?" Race offers, and Jack snaps his fingers triumphantly. "Yeah, that's what Davey calls his whiny chick music too."

Jack snorts. "You're impossible."

"I mean, I will say his voice sounds cool," Race concedes. "It's so deep. Bet he's one of those guys that basically vibrated when he talked. I've always wished my voice was deeper like that."

"That'd be weird," Jack says, casting a sideways glance at him. "Scrawny kid like you with a deep voice." Comprehension suddenly washes over Jack's face, and he gives a shit-eating grin. "Oh, it totally makes sense now. _That's_ what you see in Spot, isn't it? You think his deep voice is sexy. You're all, 'rumble at me, grumpy face.'"

Race blusters an indignant objection and hates that he can feel the back of his neck burning in embarrassment. The sight makes Jack laugh so hard he almost misses the turn into their little garage. Jack wipes his streaming eyes as he shuts off the car, still giggling.

"For real, though," he adds more seriously, "I'm happy for you two. I know I haven't known you a really long time, but you've seemed happier for a while now, at least before all this with your mom. And Spot, he's - I dunno if you can even fully understand just what an influence you've had on him. Seeing him like he's been lately, I didn't think I'd ever seen that. And it's not just that he's talking and smiling and stuff, but he's actually making plans for his future. Letting himself believe he's got a life outside this place. So just, be good to each other, 'kay? 'Cause I can't take sides if ya break up."

Race laughs. "Wouldn't want to inconvenience you," he jokes. At the same time, Jack's approval settles warmly in his chest. "Okay, we done with the Hallmark moments for today? 'Cause honestly, I'm kinda fried."

Grinning, Jack nods. "Yeah, I'm all good now," he says. "So, no more feelings time. How 'bout some mindless bro time? Leftover take-out and a movie with a totally unrealistic number of explosions?"

"Oooh, the good Batman one," Race suggests, climbing out of the car.

"Dark Knight it is," Jack says decisively as they start up the staircase into the apartment. "It really is the best one, right? I mean, the whole Two-Face thing is kinda weird and forced, and all that with the lawyer chick is just, ugh. But the Joker more than makes up for it all by himself. He's _so_ freaking good and that-"

They're barely into the foyer when a flash of movement drops Jack to his hands and knees with a pained grunt. Before Race can so much as open his mouth, he feels cold metal press to the back of his neck.

"Hey there, twinkle toes."


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains TWs for: homophobic language, kidnapping/hostage situations, and gun violence. 
> 
> *retreats back into hiding*

Cold terror blossoms in Race's chest, the pounding of his heart pushing it through his body until he feels like his veins are full of ice. It can't be. This can't be happening. Not now, not when he thought they would finally be okay.

Yet there, standing in the middle of their foyer in his hideous brown suit, gun in hand and cool as a cucumber, is the Weasel.

"Long time, no see, Higgins," Weasel jeers, smirking. He nods, and the person behind Race shoves him forward several steps, further from the door and any possible escape. Race snarls indignantly, jerking his arm out of the goon's grip even as the muzzle of the gun is pressed hard into the base of his skull again.

"Ah-ah," Weasel tuts warningly and nods over his shoulder. Off to the other side of the hall, one of his thugs is holding a knife to Davey's throat. The blind man is pale and shaking, wrists bound in duct tape with another strip over his mouth. He looks like he's been beaten up too, bruises blooming around an eye and weight hunching slightly sideways. Race's stomach plummets when the goon twitches the knife pointedly, and Weasel smirks.

"Jesus, leave him alone," Race says frantically. "He's fuckin' blind."

Weasel scoffs. "Oh please, I'm just looking for a reason to let my boy open up that stupid crip's neck," he says. From his pocket, Weasel holds up a cell phone with its screen shattered. "Daredevil here thought he'd be a hero, tried to tip you off, ain't that right?" Davey squeezes his eyes shut and his Adam's apple bobs when he swallows hard. Weasel throws the phone aside, the cracked case clattering across the floor. "So go ahead, pretty boy, test me and see what happens."

"Don't do anything stupid," Jack says where he's kneeling, holding his hands out in a sign of surrender and keeping his voice forcibly level. The skin across his cheekbone is split from the blow that took him down, bleeding steadily onto his collar. His eyes dart from the gun pointed at Race to the knife on Davey, expression tight. "It's not these folks you're after, Wiesel."

"Oh, don't worry, I'll deal with the two-faced bitch later," Weasel says indifferently. "But first, I've got some loose ends to tie up."

"How'd you even find me?" Race asks. There's a sickening suspicion taking root, an answer he's too terrified to consider. Except, the only people outside this room that have any idea of where he's been are Specs and... "Who toldja?"

"Told?" Weasel replies, voice patronizing in its mock innocence. "No one _had_ to tell me; you led me right to your own front door, exactly like I knew you would." Race's eyes widen, horrified and surprised.

"You were at the hospital," Jack concludes, scowling. "That's it, isn't it? Tailed us back from the hospital?"

Weasel grins. "Give the boy a gold star," he says. "Wasn't hard, kid, you walked right into it. I knew it'd be a matter of time 'fore your dear old momma fell back into her bad habits. Reached out to my contacts around the city, told 'em that I'd pay a pretty sum for slipping her a little something extra when she came buyin'. Sure enough, the bitch lands herself in the hospital and her disappearing son comes running like a good little puppy."

The reality of it settles over him, and Race feels his breath stick in his chest. This is his fault. He brought this down on them. He should've been smarter, should've known that Weasel would catch wind of his ma ending up in the hospital. Instead, he let himself feel safe in his anonymity and trusted in the protection of Jack's offer, and now he's gotten them all into danger.

"You know, kid," Weasel starts conversationally, a sadistic smile betraying how much he's enjoying this, "if I'd known you kept such interesting company, I'd have recruited you ages ago. I mean, the crip kid of the disgraced city councilman, I get. You got so much in common. Nothin' like havin' junkie folks to bond over, huh blindy?" Eyebrows drawing down furiously, Davey growls through the tape on his mouth. It cuts off abruptly when the blade's pulled back into his throat tighter, a narrow ribbon of blood rolling down the column of his neck. 

"Then I hear not only have you reemerged out in Staten, checking up on ol' mommy dearest," Weasel continues, "but you're being chauffeured around by a dirty ex-cop. Now _that_ was a plot twist."

"Let them go," Race pleads. "They're not part of this. Please."

"Racer, don't," Jack cautions sharply.

"But it wasn't until we trailed you back to this place that you really shocked me good," Weasel says as if there was no interruption. "I mean really, every time I think you've got to have run out surprises, you do me one better." He steps back, grabbing something Race hadn't noticed on the ground in the kitchen doorway and hauling it out into the hall. It takes a second to fully process, and then-

"Spot!" Race yelps in horror. The shorter boy appears to be unconscious, bound like Davey and beaten twice as bad. "What'd you do to him, you sonuvabitch?"

"Spot?" Weasel echoes mockingly. "You hear that boys? Now isn't that cute? A cute li'l pet name for this homicidal little asshole." This triggers a series of derisive laughs from the pair of goons. Weasel kicks Spot hard in the stomach and the boy jerks awake with a groan.

"Honestly didn't recognize him at first with that hack job done to his face, ain't that right, Conlon?" Weasel says. "We've all been wonderin' what happened to the long-lost Prince of Brooklyn. Knew he hadn't been bumped off, 'cause Pops would've used it to start a war. But this? Playing house with your little pet fairy?" Spot snarls under the tape, making to move, but Weasel lifts his gun to aim it at Race. The shorter boy follows the gesture, and he pales when his eyes meet Race's.

Meanwhile, a single detail has snagged in Race's brain, leaving him breathless. "Conlon?" he asks, wide-eyed, and sees Spot cast a nervous glance at him. Race's heard that name before: Patrick Conlon is considered the most powerful man in New York, a white-collar business shark and the unconfirmed head of the Irish mafia. Race has seen his name in the news dozens of times, one of those guys who's always suspected as being involved in everything bad even though no one can ever prove it.

Weasel scoffs. "Please, don't pretend you didn't know," he drawls. "I gotta say, as far as people to go to for protection, it doesn't get much ballsier than signing on with the King of Brooklyn. Not sure if you really got a square deal, though; protection in exchange for playing rent-boy for the prince. I mean, sorry Sean, but you weren't even much of a charmer _before_ someone took a blow torch to your face." Spot growls again, only stopping when another kick in the ribs sends him coughing.

"Tony doesn't know anything," Jack interjects. "He's got nothing to do with Conlon. None these guys do, really. That's all me."

"Nice try," Weasel says, placing his foot pointedly on Spot's throat. He doesn't press down hard, just hard enough that Race can see Spot's nostrils flare as he tries to breathe. "Telling me Junior ain't involved in his daddy's business when he's been half-running it since his balls dropped?"

"Who do ya think did that to him?" Jack shoots back, nodding toward Spot. That visibly makes Weasel pause. "What ya think I'm doin' here? Rick wanted to teach the li'l fag a lesson. Punk's been froze out; he's on probation. He don't get his shit together 'fore his dad says so, I get to put a bullet in him." Race flinches at the slur, even though he knows Jack's just trying to sell the lie. Beneath Weasel's boot, Spot thrashes furiously until the drug lord steps down harder.

Weasel sneers. "Don't really make a difference to me either way," he says, shrugging. "Junior's got a lotta valuable information in that head of his, and my boys are real good at getting stuff outta folks. And even if Ol' Ricky's mad at him right now, bet it'll still kick him in the nuts when we dump the kid's corpse on daddy's front porch. And you," he adds, gun barrel still aimed at Race, "you I'm just icing outta principle." He gestures and the man behind Race seizes his upper arm, shepherding the boy toward Weasel.

"Don't touch them," Jack says, shoving to his feet, but he stops when the safeties on both guns pointed at Race release deliberately. "Look, let's work somethin' out here, you and me. I been in Rick's inner circle for a while now, know all kindsa things that I betcha wouldn't mind hearin' about: the paddy's plans for expanding their turf into other boroughs, which leaders they're plannin' to bump off, shit like that. And my loyalty can be _real_ flexible. Might even be up to doin' some extra recon for ya, for the right price."

"Tempting offer," Weasel says, his gaze casting up and down Jack appraisingly. "Thing is, I don't like cops, even the dirty ones." Smirking, Weasel swings his arm around to point at Jack. "Sorry, pal, no deal."

The sound is explosive, reverberating off the walls, a million times worse than Race ever imagined it could possibly be. Even though he knows he's screaming, Race can't hear the sound of his voice over the concussive blasts, four of them, one right after another. Race is frozen in horror, can only watch as Jack staggers back at the impact, stumbling two steps before he falls in an ungraceful sprawl.

Frantic noises trapped behind the duct tape, Davey thrashes, driving his elbow back into the goon's stomach and shoving out of his grip. The blind man stumbles in Jack's direction, tripping and falling to his knees, and his bound hands search desperately across the floor until he finds Jack. They can all hear Davey's shaky breaths as he glides a palm over Jack's chest, feeling out the injuries, and his fingers come away red. Finally, the blind man seems to give a full-body sob and collapses onto the fallen officer, clinging to the torn shirt and wailing.

"Christ, wouldja shut him up?" Weasel says wearily. The goon with the knife rolls his eyes and strides over, slamming the hilt of the dagger into the back of Davey's head so that the man crumples over Jack's corpse with a grunt. "Go grab the van. Get these two packed up so we can dump 'em," Weasel says.

"You killed him," Race breathes, shock starting to give way to anger. "You just fuckin' _killed_ him! You sonuvabitch motherfu-" The rest of his sentence breaks off when the goon smacks the butt of his handgun into the side of Race's skull, the pain of it sending sparks through his vision.

"Don't push me," Weasel sneers. "You're already on my shit list, li'l fucker. I can kill ya quick, or I can kill ya creative, so don't tempt me."

"You ain't gonna get away with this," Race hisses, earning him another, harder blow to the head. This time the goon loops an arm around Race's neck, squeezing until he can't breathe. Spot makes a panicked noise when Race starts clawing desperately at the grip, and Spot tries to shove Weasel off with his bound hands but can't get the leverage.

"Think you'll find I already have," Weasel replies menacingly. "Now up, Junior. We's gonna have a long conversation." When he steps back, finally removing the pressure from Spot's throat, the boy rolls and shoves himself upright. He makes it one step toward Weasel when the goon bashes his gun against Race's skull again, prompting a breathless yelp, and Spot stops with a backward glance.

"That's what I thought," Weasel says, smirking victoriously. "Got a soft spot for your pet, huh? Good, I'm really gonna enjoy this then. Why don't we make it extra special, go somewhere we can have a little privacy away from that - unpleasantness?" he finishes with a nod toward Davey sprawled unconscious over Jack's body.

At a gesture from Weasel, the goon starts dragging Race along with him. Race is forced to hang onto the arm for dear life, stumbling along where the goon leads, his world starting to go black at the edges as he gasps for air. He practically falls down the stairs, wrenching his ankle as he tries to make the steps backward, and it's only once he's thrown bodily onto the floor that Race finally manages to process where he's been taken.

His studio.

Race looks up, massaging his throat and sucking in greedy breaths, at the sound of footsteps. Spot enters the room, Weasel directly behind him with a lazy grin on his face. Ignoring the pair of guns trained on them, Spot limps across the studio hastily to drop to his knees in front of Race. Those dark eyes are wide with panic as his bound hands touch Race's cheek, fingertips cold from lack of circulation.

From this close, Race can see every bruise and scrape blossoming across Spot's skin, the swelling of a broken nose above the dried blood on his face. "I'm so sorry," Race whispers hoarsely. Everything Spot's already been through, so close to a chance at freedom, and Race goes and brings all this down on him. "Fuck, Spotty, I'm sorry."

"Ain't that precious?" Weasel says sarcastically. He nods, and the goon kicks Spot in the side hard enough that it sends him sprawling, coughing behind the strip of tape as he curls around his ribs. Race tries to move to help, but he's stopped by the goon tightly grabbing a fistful of his hair, yanking him back. Walking over, Weasel nudges Spot onto his back and steps on his chest. "Whaddya know? Crown Prince of Brooklyn gone soft for the sugar plum fairy."

"Jesus, just stop it," Race says. "We got nothin' to do with all your shit. Please. We just want outta all this. Just let us go, you won't ever hear anything about us ever again, I promise."

"You think I'm just gonna let you go after all the trouble you put me through?" Weasel asks. "And after I hear your momma been getting friendly with the cops?"

"She's not cooperating," Race counters. "She said no."

Weasel stomps onto Spot's chest, sending him into another fit of pained gasping. "Oh yeah? That why she's had a pig posted at her door, huh? Why she's had a lawyer in her room half the day today? I ain't stupid, kid. Your bitch momma gonna think twice 'bout squealing when she finds out I redecorated this adorable little playhouse with your brains."

There's a thump from upstairs, and they all glance up. Weasel sighs exasperatedly and gestures to the second goon. "Go help your dumbshit brother," he says. "He's slow as fuck anyway, and I wanna be ready to get outta here as soon as I finish with tiny dancer here." The goon nods and jogs out of the studio, footsteps thudding up the stairs.

"You know, if I hadn't seen it for myself, I never would'a believed it," Weasel muses idly, looking down at Spot again. "The most vicious enforcer in the city turnin' into a worthless fag. People are so weird about their pets. I mean, look at this," he says, gesturing broadly around the studio, "made a nice li'l kennel for yours to play in and everything."

"You're wrong," Race says, flat and angry as he glares up at the man. Weasel raises an eyebrow. "You wouldn't understand anyway, you ain't never cared 'bout no one but yourself."

Weasel's smile turns condescending, eyes bright with amusement. "Oh, wouldja look at that," he says. "Twinkle toes here thinks he's in love. That's it, ain't it? Your busted up brain actually went and fell for Sean fuckin' Conlon, and you're deluded enough to think he actually cares about you too. You call me a criminal, but you got any idea the things this kid's done? Suck a guy's cock a few months 'cause he's too ugly to get it anywhere else, and you think that's love, huh?"

Swallowing hard, Race glances at Spot. The shorter boy is curled on his side, cheeks damp from the force of his coughing, but there's a brightness and hope to his eyes when they meet Race's. Race's heart jumps into his throat at the sight, a question and a promise in those dark eyes.

The moment is broken by Weasel's laugh, cruel and harsh as it bounces off the flat surfaces. "Oh, you've gotta be fuckin' kidding me," he says, glancing between them with a grin. "This is just too good." He shakes his head. "Well, this is going to make things so much easier, then. Up, Higgins."

When Race opens his mouth to argue, Weasel points the gun at Spot's head with a daring smirk. Race grits his teeth but stands up, lifting his chin as he faces Weasel. No more running. If Race is going out, he's going out the proud, confident Italiano his papà raised him to be.

"Oh, stop looking so ungrateful," Weasel responds, rolling his eyes. "I'm giving you a chance to at least die like a man, which is more man than you've been the rest of your life. You could be a little appreciative here. I mean, it'll hurt like a bitch, but how long you suffer'll be up to your deformed little boytoy here. I'll put you out of your misery soon as he agrees to cooperate."

The gun lifts to aim at Race, and he braces himself. Closing his eyes, he waits expectantly for the-

_pop-pop-pop_

Race's eyes snap open because even though there was sound, there's no pain. The moment hangs for a long, tense breath as Race struggles to make sense of what he's seeing, of the figure standing between him and Weasel. Then Spot groans, half-turning in an attempt to face toward Race before he collapses onto his shoulder, blood spreading over the front of his stupid sleeveless shirt.

" _SPOT!_ " Race screams, skidding to his knees. No idea what to do, his hands smooth uncertainly across the fabric that's very quickly becoming soaked through with blood. Then Race is pistol-whipped across the face, the force of it throwing him onto his back on the hardwood floor.

"You stupid motherfucker," Weasel snaps furiously where he's standing over them both. "Do you think your li'l sacrifice actually just accomplished anything? I've still got more bullets, and I doubt you're gonna be up to tryin' that trick again." He kicks Spot in the back, the boy's desperate yelp of pain trapped in his throat. "Just for that, I'm gonna letcha both die long and slow. But hey, least you'll go together. And who said romance is dead?"

And although Race sees Weasel lift the gun again, he can't pull his eyes away from Spot's face, only a few feet of polished floor between them. Spot, who gazes over at him with watery eyes full of light. Spot, who's rearranged everything he planned for his life on the faith that Race would stay by his side. Spot, who just took a bullet for him.

Spot, who Race somehow knows now without any words, _loves him_.

Race takes a deep breath, never letting his eyes leave Spot's as he hears Weasel release the safety on his gun, and then the gunshots blast through the room.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this early because I feel guilty about the back-to-back cliffhangers. So, um, finally a good surprise in regards to this story? I apologize for the emotional anguish I've caused. (Well, really, it's more a #sorrynotsorry kind of thing because let's be real, I love writing the drama and your reviews gave me a weirdly sadistic pleasure... I might be a little evil.)

Race can't breathe, his ears ringing with the deafening blast of the gunshots echoing off the sleek surfaces. He can feel the blood and gore hot on his skin, but the rest of him is cold with shock. Swallowing hard, Race forces himself to look away from Spot's confused gaze, and he glances up.

Weasel makes a sickening gagging noise, his gun falling from his hand as he touches the front of his shirt uncomprehendingly. With another cough that sends blood ribboning down his chin, Weasel drops to his knees and then crumples onto his side. Behind him, in the doorway to the studio, is Jack, eyes full of fire and gun held aloft in one hand.

"Jack?" Race asks incredulously, sitting up. The officer looks like the poster boy for some actiony horror film. His flannel shirt is missing, instead wearing only a black undershirt with a stiff black Kevlar vest over the top. His left arm is hanging at his side, the sleeve of his tee torn and smudged bands of crimson dying the skin down past his elbow. Dried blood is cracked and flaking from his jaw beneath the gash across his cheekbone. "How-?"

Jack doesn't lower his gun or respond to Race in any way, crossing the studio in quick strides until he's towering over Weasel. He shoves the drug lord hard with his foot and gets no response. With Weasel lying on his stomach, Race can see a half dozen patches of darkening fabric on the back of his coat. Jack hesitates a second longer, then kneels and tucks his gun back into his waistband to reach out and check the man's pulse. "He's dead," Jack announces grimly.

"So were _you_ ," Race says, half-hysterically. He shakes his head and scrambles awkwardly across the floor to Spot's side, turning his attention to more important matters. "Help me," Race snaps in Jack's direction. "He's bleeding. He got shot."

Breathing shallowly, Spot raises his hands to scratch at the tape on his mouth. Race grimaces and digs his nails beneath a corner, then rips it off in one go. Spot seizes, curling partway onto his side, and coughs out a mouthful of syrupy blood. "Race," he gasps out when he can finally breathe, voice hoarse and weak.

"Shh, you're gonna be okay," Race says reassuringly. His hands are shaking as he shoves Spot's shirt up, checking the damage. Three wounds are seeping a steady flow of blood: one in his stomach, one at the lower right of his sternum, and a third in the left side of his ribs. Race presses his palms down over the upper two of them, trying to seal them with pressure, and Spot groans, eyes rolling up.

"Easy, kid, hang in there," Jack says, kneeling on Spot's other side. Jack doesn't seem to be able to really use his left arm, still curled against his side limply, but he leans in to cover the third wound with his right hand. "Already got an ambulance on the way, you just gotta - fuck, just hang in there for a few minutes, okay?"

"Race," Spot repeats. His voice is thick through the blood still on his tongue. "Youse - you 'kay?"

Race can't stop the exasperated laugh. "I'm fine, _stupido_ ," he says. "I can't believe you."

Spot huffs a laugh and then immediately winces, face screwed up in pain. "Wasn'a hard choice," he murmurs. "Me fa' you. 'F there was a chance'a savin' you..." He trails off, grunting as his eyes roll up again.

Race can feel the liquid heat oozing up between his fingers, more of it escaping with every heartbeat, and he's sick with panic. "Don't you fuckin' dare," he hisses angrily. "Don't you _dare_ fuckin' die on me right now, Spot."

A hint of a smirk lifts the corner of Spot's mouth. Gaze flitting to Jack, Spot lifts an eyebrow. "Body armor?"

"Just in case," Jack agrees with a wry smile. "Been wearin' it whenever I leave the house lately, in case your old man caught on to what I been plannin'."

Spot grins, teeth stained scarlet. "Lucky," the shorter boy says. "I should'a-" He trails off, coughing, and blood speckles his lips. When he can finally breathe again, his eyes are watering. Spot meets Jack's gaze determinedly. "Take care of 'im?"

"Stop it!" Race yells, voice cracking. "Stop. You're gonna be fine. So knock it off with the fuckin' goodbye shit."

"Can't breathe," Spot replies in shaky gasps, eyes somber. He descends into another fit of coughing so bad that he retches, and Jack shoves Race's hands away so he can roll Spot onto his side so he doesn't choke. The shorter boy gags, spitting out blood until he can manage a breath. "Race?"

"Please, Spot," Race says desperately. Without pressure on the gunshots, blood is pumping steadily from each, and Spot's shirt is completely soaked. Sticky trails of it run from his lips to the floor. Race doesn't want to believe it, doesn't want to admit that this is really happening, but he can't stop his chest from locking up at the resigned sadness on Jack's face.

"Please, Spot, _please_ ," Race says frantically. "Just gotta hold on a li'l longer, right?" He wraps his arms around Spot's body, heaving him into Race's lap. Cradling Spot to his chest, Race can feel how cold Spot's skin is getting and the tremors rolling through his muscles. "You promised, Spotty," Race says into the side of Spot's skull. "Ya promised you wasn't gonna leave me alone."

Spot blinks slowly, letting out a shallow breath. "M'sorry," he says. "But you ain't 'lone. Got Jack and Dave-"

"But I love _you_ ," Race interrupts, furious, helpless tears burning his eyes. "I love you, you fuckin' asshole, so dontcha dare die."

Grinning, Spot tips his head enough to meet Race's gaze. "Yeah?"

"Course I do," Race responds. "Even when you do somethin' stupid like get yourself shot for nothin'."

"You ain't _nothin'_ ," Spot says firmly. "And I ain't sorry. Do it all 'gain if it meant savin' you." Spot's eyes go unfocused, sliding passed Race to fix on some middle distance, and his brow furrows. "Ya promised," he says. "Fa' them." Race frowns, glancing over his shoulder, but there's nothing there. He exchanges startled looks with Jack, who shrugs grimly. Then Spot's expression relaxes and he hums. "Good."

"Spot, what-?" The end of Race's sentence is drowned out by Spot sinking into a series of shallow wheezes. Panicking, Race tries to shift Spot into a better position, but it's only seconds later that Spot exhales and goes abruptly still. A rush of cold terror pours down Race's spine. "Spot? Spotty? _Sean_?"

"Racer," Jack says, tears on his cheeks.

"No, no, he can't," Race counters wildly. "C'mon, Spot, this ain't funny, _bastardo_." He slides Spot down to lie on the floor, dread filling him when the boy doesn't acknowledge the movement in any way, and Race's hand darts up to press his fingers into the side of Spot's neck. No matter how hard he pushes, how much he wills it, there's no trace of a beat. "No, no, no, no, no..."

Jack moves around to kneel at Race's side, his hand settling on Race's back supportively. "Race, he's-"

" _No_ , you said he just had to hang in a li'l bit," Race snarls violently, shrugging Jack's hand off. He tears at the tape around Spot's wrists, heart pounding in his ears when the shorter boy doesn't react to the tug of the tape on his skin. There's no responding pressure when Race folds one of Spot's cold hands in both of his, distractedly trying to rub warmth into the blood-stained digits. "The paramedics'll get here and save him. Can - can do CPR, right? You're a cop; you gotta know how to do that, right?"

"Tony, that bullet would'a hit his lung, maybe even his heart," Jack explains in a low, patient voice that chafes at every inch of Race's being. "CPR'd just make the damage worse at this point. He's gone, Tony."

It's the way that Jack's voice breaks on his name that finally shatters the barrier of shock around Race's brain. Shivering, Race looks down at Spot's still face, cheek marked with Race's bloody fingerprints and his dark eyes open and unseeing. "But he promised," Race sobs out and then he crumbles, forehead sinking onto Spot's chest as he folds around the hand he's still clutching.

This isn't fair. All this time, everything they planned out to be able to be together, to keep Spot safe from his dad, and _this_ is how it ends?

Race isn't sure how long he's been curled over Spot's body, Jack's arm warm and supportive across his shoulders, when a thump from above catches their attention. A split second later, there's a startled, broken-off scream and another crash. "Davey," Jack says anxiously, his brow furrowed. He glances down at Race and Spot, biting his lip uncertainly.

"Jack!" Davey yelps from upstairs, followed by a clatter.

Race meets Jack's gaze and nods. Locking his jaw, Jack squeezes Race's shoulder and stands. "Dave?" he shouts as he sprints across the studio toward the stairs. "Davey, you okay?"

Exhaling, Race starts to drop his gaze back down to Spot when a glimmer of movement makes him freeze. Race hastily looks over his shoulder, but the room behind him is empty. Yet when he turns back to the mirror, Race can still see it, a vague outline of a person in shifting shades of black and white and red walking toward him. And all at once, it strikes him who it must be.

"You're the witch," Race growls at the figure in the glass. Then Race remembers the scar on the inside of Spot's wrist, and his heart leaps. "You can fix him," Race says hopefully. "You said he can't die. He has a year, and that year's not over yet, so you gotta bring him back, right?"

"His debt is paid," a voice shimmers in the back of Race's head, a painful cacophony of overlapping pitches, like three voices in one. It's a woman's voice, but with two more laced through it, one high and ethereal while the second is low and guttural. The effect sends chills down Race's spine, an animal fear he can't fully explain blossoming to life in his chest. "His lesson is learned."

"You can't do this!" Race says indignantly, standing up to face off with the creature in the mirror. "He's a good person. He did what you wanted. You can't just let him _die_. And why him? Why not any of all those other awful people like _that_ guy?" Race points at Weasel's slumped corpse. "Why did you punish Spot and not men like that, or like his fuckin' dad that's done a million times worse?"

"It's not a punishment," the witch says simply. "It's a lesson; one that only a heart like his still stood a chance of learning. I saved his soul from crossing the line that cannot be uncrossed."

Race hears Spot's voice echo in his head, a memory from their quiet bedroom confessional that was only last night but feels like a lifetime ago: _she said it's 'cause I had a chance._ That's what she meant; not that Spot had _had_ the chance to be good and wasted it, but that he _still had_ a chance to be better. "But what does it matter if he's gone now? Why are you even here if you're not going to _do_ anything?"

The figure shifts, crouching at Spot's side opposite Race even though he still can't see her except in the surface of the mirror. "I made a promise," she says. "Those who saved a heart from darkness have been rewarded. That includes you."

"I don't want a fuckin' reward," Race shouts, stalking toward the mirror. "I want Spot back! You have to do something!" Race's voice cracks, and he swallows hard, rubbing angrily at his eyes when he feels the tears welling again. As he does, he finally takes a good look at his reflection; he's covered in blood, his arms, and shirt and even face streaked with it. So much blood. _Spot's_ blood

"Please," Race begs, bracing himself against the glass when his legs quiver beneath him. He squeezes his eyes shut against the burn of tears, clearing his throat around the lump of emotion lodged there. "Please, don't take him away from me. I love him."

There's a soft brush of contact across Race's brow, like the feel of when his mother would push his curls back from his eyes, except this touch is cold and electric. "I know," the eerie voice whispers almost gently. "I know you do."

A sudden ripple goes through the room, silent but strong enough that the mirrors vibrate against the wall. Race stumbles a step and then reels back, gasping for air as the intense pressure building in the room makes his chest feel too tight. There's no sound, nothing visible, but the hairs on Race's arms are standing on end like the place is filling with lightning.

Then, with a second, stronger pulse through the air, every scar and tattoo on Spot's body lights up. It's blinding but Race can't bring himself to look away, eyes watering as he walks over to kneel at Spot's side again. Spot isn't moving but his skin is lit up like the sun, golden white pouring from every inch of marks on his body. There's heat pouring off them, so much that Race doesn't dare try to touch them despite his curiosity.

It starts so small that it takes Race a moment to notice at first. One of the tattoos high on Spot's skull starts to flake, specks of it swirling away into the air like ash on a breeze, leaving the skin beneath smooth and unblemished. The peeling spreads down his scalp and onto his face, picking up speed as it travels, and each tattoo and scar disappears as it goes. Race watches in awe as the bit of metal in Spot's eyebrow melts into liquid and evaporates, and the burn marks across his nose and ear bubble and then smooth.

The gashes across Spot's chest stitch themselves shut, warped staples dissolving. Then, miraculously, the two higher gunshot wounds shrink to pinpricks before they vanish as well until there's nothing but a tiny circle of bare olive skin surrounded by bloodstains. The third wound on his stomach seems to migrate, drifting further toward the side of his abdomen.

At about the same time the scars have retreated as far as his waist, dark hair sprouts on Spot's scalp. It's a rich chocolate brown, growing in fast-motion until its long enough to touch against the newly-grown eyebrows that replace the tattooed glyphs. Another column of hair starts at his bellybutton and travels down to the button of his jeans.

Race is left blinking away violet circles in his vision as the last of the scarring shells away from Spot's feet and takes the blinding light with it. The boy lying in front of Race is almost unrecognizable, his skin now marked only by the scattered cuts and bruises from Weasel's beating. Every trace of the runic scars and spiraling tattoos is gone. All of it, except... Hand shaking, Race reaches out to brush a thumb across the singular black dot beneath the boy's right eye.

With a shuddering, overcompensating breath, Spot's eyes snap open abruptly, and Race jumps back with a yelp. Spot seizes, choking and curling his arm over the remaining gunshot wound on his side. Green eyes - now devoid of the ruptured blood vessels that always made them appear so much darker - blink owlishly as Spot scrambles to catch his breath. His gaze flicks around, dazed and lost, until it finally lands on Race at his side. Spot's brow furrows and then the corner of his lips twitches up in a way that's too familiar.

"Spot?" Race asks uncertainly.

"Youse a mess," Spot replies hoarsely, grinning shallowly. He grunts, sitting up slowly, and hisses through his teeth as he glances at the wound in his side. "Fuck, that hurt like a bitch."

Race stares, awed and confused, at the boy sitting opposite him. "Spot, how-?" Nervously, Race reaches out, but he can't bring himself to actually touch, terrified that it will all be a dream; that Spot is just an apparition that will dissolve into the air the moment he makes contact. Spot's eyes soften, and he curls his free hand around Race's wrist, dragging his hand up so Spot can nestle his cheek into his palm. His skin is warm under Race's touch, nothing like the chill from before, and Race's chest constricts painfully.

"You okay, Racer?" Spot asks, his eyes panning down Race apprehensively. "Your face's bleedin'."

"You were _dead_ ," Race rebuts hysterically because the cut on his cheek from being pistol-whipped seems entirely irrelevant in the face of that. "I watched you die, but you're here, and you're - you're still bleedin', fuck, you okay?"

"M'okay," Spot says, casting a half-glance at the small hole in his side. Spot gingerly peels off his ruined shirt and balls it up, pressing it to the injury to stave the bleeding. "Ain't nothin' dangerous. Said she had to 'splain my blood bein' everywhere somehow."

The comment startles Race out of his surprise and he looks over at the mirrors again, but the mysterious blurred figure is gone. "So that was really her," Race says. "That was the witch?"

A tiny, sly smirk tugs at Spot's mouth. "Toldja it was magic," he murmurs triumphantly.

"And you," Race says breathlessly, scanning over the unknown face in front of him. This boy is someone Race's never seen before, with his soft skin and hair falling into his dark eyes and a tender, playful smile on his lips. But then, as Race looks closer, he starts to pick up on things that he recognizes: the hard square of a jaw, that smattering of pale freckles across the bridge of his nose, and the little wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. "She brought you back."

Grinning, Spot cups Race's hand more securely against the side of his face. "Told me I deserved the chance to prove I really learned my lesson," he says. "That no matter how much bad shit a person's done, so long's they can still love, that life got worth. And don't think I gotta say it 'fore, but I do. Love ya, I mean."

Race can't stop the watery chuckle. "I kinda got that when you jumped in front of a fuckin' bullet, you asshole." He swallows back the sob as it sneaks up on him, giving himself a second to catch his breath again. "I thought I lost ya," Race admits quieter, not able to hide the quiver in his voice. "You were dead. You died in my fuckin' lap, and I - Christ, Spotty-"

"Hey, s'okay," Spot says, his voice slipping down into that same firm intensity that always seems to calm the rushing in Race's head. "I'm okay, Racer. We's okay." Without another word, he tugs Race closer, wrapping his arms securely around Race as he shakes against the sobs fighting to escape. "We's okay, Race, I ain't goin' nowhere. I gotcha."

Burying his head in the crook of Spot's shoulder, Race is sure that his fingers are digging into Spot's back, but he can't let go, clinging to the shorter boy like it's the only thing keeping him together. He'd been _so sure_. The witch had talked like she wasn't going to save him, but Spot's _here_. He's alive. They're safe.

It takes Race several long minutes to get his emotions back under control, and in the wake of the awe and solace, he feels something else well up inside of him. Race extracts himself from Spot's grip, taking in the other boy's face for a moment. Then, in the very next breath, Race hauls back and punches Spot in the jaw.

The shorter boy grunts, hand jumping up to touch his cheek, and he raises an eyebrow at Race. "D'you just _sock me_?" he asks, but behind the disbelief, those creases have appeared at the corners of his eyes the way they do when he's trying not to smile.

"Yes," Race says unrepentantly. "That's what you get for dyin' on me. Scared the shit outta me, you ass. Now you better shut the fuck up and kiss me a'ready, or I might just hit ya again."

And Spot snorts a laugh, his grin slantwise and eyes fond between the wrinkles, and it eases away the last of Race's lingering doubts because that's _his_ Spot. They both move at the same time, crashing together in a kiss boiling over with all the day's fear and adrenaline and exhaustion and relief. The force of it leaves Race trembling, or maybe that's just the shock wearing off, and he has to clutch Spot's shoulders to keep himself kneeling upright. Spot doesn't seem to be doing much better, the one hand pressed against his bleeding side and the other fisted in the curls at the nape of Race's neck, leaning his weight onto the taller boy's shoulder for balance.

The moment hangs, long and heavy, before there's a clamor from the doorway that makes them both look up. Jack and Davey are stepping into the studio, Davey clinging to Jack's uninjured arm, but they both stop just inside the doorframe in surprise. While Jack stares at Spot in confusion, Davey's gaze slides around the room; across Weasel's crumpled body, and the stained floorboards, and the blood-soaked Race and Spot kneeling together.

And Davey sums up the entire situation with a very succinct, "What the _fuck_?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be the final chapter, but once again, I just could not get it to condense properly. (Seriously, can anyone believe this - just like Stars - was meant to be a oneshot originally? I have serious control issues when it comes to these boys, Newsies has destroyed me.) So there will be one more chapter after this one to tie up the last of the loose threads and we should finally be done.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I come out of hiding yet...?

For a minute, the four of them stare at each other, stunned into silence. Then they all start talking at the same time: "Spot, is that you?" - "Wait, you can _see_?" - "What the hell happened here?" - "You mean it worked?"

"Whoa, okay, this is ridiculous," Davey interjects loudly, raising his voice above the rest of them. "Talking over each other isn't going to solve anything. Let's prioritize here. All three of you are bleeding. Can you two walk?"

"Yeah, I'm okay," Race answers, cowed by the firm authority in Davey's voice. It's the 'stop shitting around and pay attention' tone that Race got more than once in their tutoring lessons, and he knows better than to argue with Davey in that mood. "Spot?"

"Think I'm good, yeah," Spot agrees.

"Then upstairs, now," Davey orders. "Paramedics should be here any minute, and you guys clearly need it. Besides, that's creeping me out," he adds, nodding toward Weasel's corpse.

The question surges forward again, and Race can't stop himself from asking, "Which you can _see_?" Davey's eyes jump over to him, the normally unfocused blue eyes fixating on his face. Although Davey is still clutching Jack's elbow like a lead the way he always would, there's no doubt that he actually sees Race. "Since when?"

Davey half-smirks. "Since about ten minutes ago, apparently." Race opens his mouth to ask more, but Davey cuts him off by adding, "You need a hand up?"

Shaking his head, Race stands awkwardly, surprised when the ankle he wrenched on the stairs doesn't sting. When he offers his hand out, Spot uses the leverage to get to his feet. The shorter boy sways a little, jaw clenched, but he nods. Race instantly moves to sling his arm over Spot's shoulders, and the other boy loops the arm not preoccupied with protecting his gunshot wound around Race's waist gratefully.

"Okay, but what I wanna know," Jack interrupts as they move out into the stairwell. He stares in awe at the shorter of the teens. "Spot?"

"Hi," Spot replies dryly.

Jack opens and shuts his mouth twice, lost for words. "Yeah, I agree with Dave," he finally says. "What the fuck?"

"I thought you said he died," Davey says, the adults trailing the younger pair up the staircase.

"He _did_ ," Jack replies incredulously. "Been shot in the fuckin' chest. I saw him die."

Davey snorts wryly. "Seems to be a lot of that going around," he mutters.

"Not the same thing," Jack snaps back. They reach the foyer and Race's eyes dart to the pair of unconscious goons against the wall, both of them bound up in duct tape. "I was wearing a vest. He wasn't."

Spot's eyes widen in comprehension. "You knew," he says to Davey. "You knew Jack wasn't dead, didn't ya?"

"Not at first, but yeah," Davey admits. "I felt the vest when I was checking on him, but I didn't want Wiesel to know. I was afraid he might try to finish the job." There's no missing the flash of agony that crosses Davey's face, or the sudden warmth in Jack's, although neither of them looked at each other.

The sound of sirens from outside puts a stop to more conversation, and Jack leads the way out with his good hand held up in a show of surrender. The others immediately follow his lead when they see the semicircle of officers spilling onto the sidewalks with their guns drawn. There are two ambulances parked behind them, and the street is full of the flashing lights and noise.

"Easy, guys," Jack shouts. "Detective Jack Kelly, Manhattan 12th. None of these guys is armed. My service pistol is at my back," he rotates slowly on the spot, allowing the nearest patrol officer to dart forward and remove the gun from Jack's waistband. "There's two detained on the second-floor foyer, bravo condition. One on the first floor, echo. And this kid's got a GSW in the stomach, so if we could get him to a doc..."

The rest of the afternoon passes in a chaotic blur for Race. They all get swept off in different directions, Jack and Race into one ambulance while Spot and Davey are herded into the other. Once they get to the hospital, they're separated even further, Jack rushed off to an operating room where they can remove the bullet still lodged in his shoulder. Race is shepherded into a different ward in the ER, where a doctor stitches up the gash on his cheek and declares his ankle perfectly uninjured.

Despite his protests that he's absolutely fine, the doctors insist on monitoring Race for a while since he took a couple blows to the head. The only relief is that the patrol officer who's apparently been assigned to keep detail on Race is a nice guy, and he keeps Race updated on the others from his radio chatter. So Race is forced to sit on a bed in the busy emergency room and wait as Davey goes through a second MRI and Jack is brought out of surgery and Spot gets a blood transfusion.

It's several hours later when Davey appears at the end of Race's bed, and the Italian sits up eagerly. "Davey, you okay?" Race asks, eyeing the older man anxiously. He's been cleaned up at some point, no longer covered in stripes of blood, and he's wearing the same hospital-issue white tee and blue scrub pants as Race. There's a trio of those skinny strip band-aids on the cut that spans across his throat and a large bruise around one eye, but other than that, he just looks exhausted and dazed.

"I'm good, Race," Davey assures him, sparing him a warm smile as he comes around to prop a hip against the side of the bed. "Better than good, really."

"So you can really see?" Race asks eagerly, even though that answer is evident by the way Davey's meeting his gaze.

Carding a hand through his hair, Davey gives a breathless laugh. "It's some sort of miracle, the doctors can't explain it," he admits. "Done a dozen different tests and scans, and it doesn't make sense, but all the damage to my optic nerves is just _gone_ , like it was never there. Their working theory right now is that the blow to the head knocked whatever was out of place back in." He snorts derisively, sharing his opinion on that idea.

"But you're not blind anymore," Race says, awed.

"Apparently not," Davey says. "Everything is still a little blurry, but they said it'll get better as my eyes adjust. Right now it's more disorienting than anything. I haven't seen anything in - God, almost thirteen years now?" He shakes his head. "And then, of course, the first thing I see is some guy with his face all beaten in, and I panicked because I thought it was one of you guys."

Race chuckles. "Oh, _that's_ why you screamed?"

"Well, that and the part where I was freaking out because I could see at all," Davey says with a wry grin.

The officer standing guard off to the side abruptly straightens up, clearing his throat. "Hey guys, just got word from the boss," he says, smiling kindly. "They got the other kid settled into a secured room, so if you wanna..."

"Yes," Race cuts in immediately, scooting toward the edge of the bed. The officer doesn't comment, just smiling and gesturing for them to follow. He guides them to the far end of the floor, into a ward where there are proper rooms instead of beds divided by hanging curtains. One doorway has two uniformed officers posted outside of it, and they nod in greeting when their little group reaches it. Race and Davey slip passed them, and Race's heart is in his throat when he opens the door.

When Race's first thought is that it looks like a standard hospital room, he decides that he's definitely spent far too much time in them lately. It's a simple white square, centered by a partially-reclined bed and edged in an assortment of sleek machinery. Jack is sitting in the hard plastic chair that always seems to be next to every hospital bed, shirtless to reveal the heavy bandaging around his shoulder. His arm is in a sling, and what's visible of his stomach and chest is dyed in dark bruises.

Race's attention, however, darts almost instantly to the bed. Stretched out on top of the blankets is a foreign young man, wearing only loose blue scrub pants and a ring of stark white bandaging around his waist. His sweat-slicked hair's been pushed up off his brow, and his dark eyes are half-lidded. There's a narrow bandage across the bridge of his broken nose, and a line of medical tape is holding an IV in place against the curve of an elbow.

Then the distracted gaze lands on Race and the boy's face immediately brightens as he scoots into more of a sitting position. "Racer," he says, and even his voice is different, still so deep but less coarse. The side of his lips slant up, creases forming at the outer corners of his eyes, and the last of the anxiety releases in Race's core at the familiarity.

"Spot, hey," Race responds, returning the other's smile. The door swings shut behind him and Davey, and Race hurries over to the side of the bed. "You okay?"

"M'okay," Spot says, nodding. "Apparently I'm the luckiest damn guy on the planet; the bullet managed to just barely miss everythin' important." His grin turns wry and teasing at this. "Said worst I'm gonna get is a scar or two, heaven forbid." Race snorts, shaking his head exasperatedly.

From the chair beside the bed, Jack scoffs. "Docs can't explain how the kid lost so much blood from such a li'l wound though," he says, shooting a narrow-eyed glare at both Spot and the IV stand behind him that's feeding crimson into the needle into Spot's veins.

"Yeah, well, they can't explain how a blind guy can suddenly see again after a decade either," Davey adds in, cocking a hip against the foot of the bed. Race doesn't miss the way that Davey's eyes linger on Jack, dragging slowly across him like he's absorbing every detail, and Race bites back a smile. "And frankly," Davey continues, "neither can I, so if someone could enlighten me...?"

"I asked for it," Spot admits, licking his lips and looking tentative for a second. "I mean, not _that_ specifically. Just-" He lets out a breath. "The last time the witch checked in on me, back 'round the start of summer, I was sorta just done, ya know? Frustrated. And I was worried my old man was gonna screw you guys over, like, not really pay ya or somethin'. Told the witch, if she wasn't gonna do nothin' for me, could she least help you guys out? And she said if I could break the curse, she'd do it."

"They have been rewarded," Race echoes, brow furrowed. At the bewildered looks from the others, he says, "It's something the witch said to me. Don't remember the words exactly, but it was something about the ones who saved him being rewarded and keeping a promise. That must've been what she meant, right?"

Davey holds up a hand. "Wait, so, we're going with the 'magic is real' theory here?" he asks skeptically.

"Oh definitely," Race says immediately. "I mean, the whole you not being blind and Spot not being dead bit aside, you would not believe some of the weird shit I saw earlier. There was the creepy witch who was just this weird blurry shape I could only see in the mirrors and then Spot's tattoos all literally burnt off in _light_. It was super freaky."

"Yeah, trust me," Jack agrees with a nod, "there's no getting from how he looked this morning to looking like _that_ in ten minutes without magic involved. No offense, Spot." The boy flicks his hand in a lazy dismissal. "And you said it yourself, Dave, no one can explain how else your eyes started working out of the blue again." Pinching the bridge of his nose, Davey makes a vague noise of agreement.

"So Davey can see again," Race says thoughtfully, "but what about Jack?"

The officer grins. "Are you kidding? My career just got _made_ ," he says emphatically. "The lieutenant called me before I went into surgery. They've already drafted an arrest warrant for Patrick Conlon, he's pro'lly on his way to prison right now. We just busted the biggest crime boss in New York, and my name's all over that case."

"Too bad ya got shot in the process," Spot points out.

"Eh, after the last year, I'm okay with bein' on desk duty awhile," Jack says unconcernedly. "Was lucky, the bullet didn't break the bone, so it's just lettin' the muscles fix up. Doc says a li'l physical therapy and I should heal up no trouble. And besides, now that I'm officially not undercover, hopefully gonna have a kid at home to be taking care of, so the regular hours'll be nice." Jack's smile is practically giddy at this concept.

"And youse safe to go back to your life," Spot adds, reaching out to brush his fingers against Race's affectionately. Like an instinct, Race doesn't even think about it as he turns his hand to thread their fingers together. "Weasel's gone. Ya can go back to school and your dancin'. And your audition."

Race can't explain the way his stomach simultaneously jumps and plummets at the prospect. It's not that he isn't thrilled to finally be safe and he's dying to get back into his dance classes. Except that the rational part of him knows that without the threat of Weasel over her head, there's nothing really stopping his mother from falling back into old habits. And even if she does go into rehab, where does that leave Race?

"Racer?" Spot says, squeezing his hand. "What's'a matter?"

His voice shakes as Race admits, "I don't wanna go home." The truth feels like a betrayal, hurts like a spear in the chest, but it doesn't change the facts. There was a piece of him that was genuinely looking forward to the idea of a stable home, to knowing that there was a place waiting for him at the end of the day with people who cared enough to want him safe.

"Whoa, hey, you're not goin' anywhere, kiddo," Jack says, sitting up straighter in his chair.

"But the cops don't need me no more if Weasel's gone," Race says. "And Ma ain't gonna go into rehab without you guys makin' her, but I don't wanna go back to livin' like that, but I don't wanna go to foster care either if she takes off..."

Spot sits up, turning slightly on the bed to face him better, and his hand moves up to cup the side of Race's neck. "Breathe, Racer," he says firmly. It's only this order that makes Race realize he's working himself up into a panic, and he forces himself to take a long, slow breath. "Better? Good. We're gonna work it out, okay? We're gonna figure somethin' out."

"Family, remember?" Davey interjects determinedly, his eyes soft and sympathetic. "We're a family. You don't have to go anywhere you don't want to."

"We'll talk to Medda," Jack adds. "She'll help us work something out. And my offer's still on the table. Case or no case, you're welcome at my place. You know, so long as you don't mind you might end up roomin' with me or Charlie 'til we can find a bigger place."

Race exhales heavily, feeling the tension bleed out of him with the gesture. "Yeah?"

"Fo'sure," Jack agrees. "I promised I was gonna take care of you, right?"

Nodding, Race threads his hand with the one still resting, warm and steady, on the side of his neck. Spot, his pillar of calm against the itch of anxiety under his skin. Race looks over at the other boy attentively. "What about you?"

"Jack's been goin' to bat for me, too," Spot says, casting a small smile over at the officer. "Guess there's perks to havin' a cop for a friend, huh?"

Jack grins. "Lieutenant thinks we can get him out with little-to-no jail time, with the circumstances," he explains. "Since he's being fully cooperative and all. That confession he typed up even named a couple officers on ol' man Conlon's payroll, so the chief is giving full reins to the Feds to take that info and go to town on this. Gonna get a whole lotta bad people off the streets. Add in that Spot's a minor and jail's a dangerous place for him, with his dad and all, I'm pretty confident."

"So this was your big secret?" Davey asks, glancing between the rest of them. "This is what you couldn't tell me? That you were part of some undercover sting?"

"Not all of us," Jack says insistently. "This was all my thing. The kids only got roped in 'cause I was tryna help Race with his mom, and then 'cause I wanted to give Spot a warnin' before we went after his dad. They didn't know either. Was just me keepin' secrets, I promise. And I hated every fuckin' second of it."

Davey chuckles. "Honestly, I didn't even think you were capable of lying like that," he says, only a hint bitterly.

Jack winces, averting his eyes to his lap. "I never wanted to, but it was part of the case. Signed a bunch of confidentiality things with the Feds and everything. And I couldn't just quit the case; this was my chance to really help people in this city. I never expected meetin' you when I took this job, Dave. Wished every day I could'a met you any other time."

There's a flicker of astonishment and affection on Davey's face at the admission, and he licks his lips. "That's - I didn't really mean it like that," he says. "Sorry. I mean, as far as secrets to keep, it's kind of hard to be mad about that one. And, well, there's that whole thing about throwing stones in glass houses."

"Dave?" Jack asks uncertainly. "You okay?"

Davey sighs, rubbing his eyes wearily. "If I'd known you were really a cop going after Patrick Conlon, I would've come to you about this a long time ago," he says ruefully. "But while we're confessing things here - I didn't take the job because I couldn't get work anywhere else. I actually had a job lined up at a private school for the blind in Rochester before this. I took the job because Conlon was blackmailing me."

"He _what_?" Spot interjects furiously as Jack makes a startled noise of protest.

"Or my dad, technically," Davey amends. "The last time he relapsed, I guess he got himself into trouble with some of Conlon's guys. Conlon has the proof, threatened to make it all public. My dad's just barely starting to get his life back on track. He wouldn't survive another press attack like the first one."

"So you took the job in exchange for him keeping a lid on things?" Spot concludes, scowling. "Fuck, Dave, you should'a said somethin'."

"I thought I had it handled," Davey says, shrugging. "Besides, it's not like it was the worst job ever, all things considered, so long as I didn't let myself think about _who_ I was working for. Free room and board to keep my dad's name out of the press, and it's not like I even really had to work, since my student wanted nothing to do with me." He shoots an amused glance at Spot. "It could've been worse."

Jack lets out a breath, scrubbing his right hand over his face. "Jesus, Dave, if I'd known," he says, grimacing. "I could'a done something. Could'a put you in touch with some cops that could'a helped you out, get you outta that situation."

A faint smile dashes across Davey's lips. "Well, like I said, it wasn't like the last year's been terrible," he says, his tone shifting into something less somber. "And the company was pretty decent."

"Oh yeah?" Jack says, cottoning on with a sly grin. "Even if he was lyin' about his job?"

Davey snorts. "I mean, I have to admit, cop sounds a lot sexier than housekeeper."

Groaning, Race drops his head onto Spot's shoulder dramatically. "Ugh, would you two just fuckin' kiss already?"

"Hey, you, opinions to yourself," Jack responds, struggling to hide a laugh. Davey buries his face in his hands, but his ears are burning red in embarrassment. "My house, my rules, so get used to it."

As the adults move closer and lower their voices, Race shakes his head and turns his attention back to Spot. This face still startles him, hits Race's eyes as just slightly _wrong_ , but he can't deny the appeal either. Race was never bothered by the scars, not really, but it's not like Spot's exactly hard on the eyes like this. Curiously, Race reaches out to comb his fingers through the soft brown fringe that's been swept back off Spot's brow.

"You're gonna attract more than just those foot fetishists now," Race remarks to break the hesitant tension, letting his hand drop.

Spot snorts a laugh. "Too bad I a'ready got my eye on someone else," he replies. "There's this guy I met; bit of a drama queen but damn is he pretty."

"Yeah, _I'm_ the drama queen in this relationship," Race says sarcastically, earning him a playful shove in response. "But all those things you wanted to do, you can do 'em now."

" _We_ can," Spot says in that same quiet intensity of his. He also managed to perfectly predict Race's thoughts and ease them in two simple words. Spot smirks knowingly and tugs Race forward into a short, chaste kiss. When they part, Spot offers a small grin. "I mean, ya know, if the new face don't turn ya off, o'course."

Race falls into a fit of surprised giggles, letting his hand move up to trace the lines and shapes of Spot's face with his fingertips. It's all so familiar like that; the surface might've changed a little, but it's still the same face under that. "Dunno," Race says teasingly. He drags a thumb over Spot's eyebrow. "Betcha'd look hot with a piercin' here."

"Your fuckin' kinks," Spot murmurs in amusement.

Smiling, Race shrugs unrepentantly and keeps going. When his exploration reaches the black dot on Spot's cheekbone, his expression softens affectionately. "Anyone ever told ya, you got a spot there?"

"It's come up," Spot agrees, smirking. He bites his lip before he adds, "She said I deserved a reminder of what made me who I am."

"I'm glad," Race says. "I like it."

And Spot's eyes crinkle at the corners in that way they always seem to do when he's looking at Race. "Yeah, me too."


	26. Epilogue

**_One Year Later_ **

Heartbeat pounding in his ears, Antonio Higgins sprints down the crowded streets of New York City. Angry pedestrians shout protests at his back as he elbows his way through clusters of people, and Tony calls out breathless apologies over his shoulder without stopping. He's exhausted, but he doesn't slow down, darting up familiar streets and alleys in the fastest route that he knows. His bag thumps against his back, and he can feel sweat sticking his shirt to his skin, but he can't stop.

Tony's always been a runner, but he's not Racetrack anymore. Nowadays, his running is different. For the first time in his life, instead of running away from something, he's running _to_ it.

Barreling around the corner onto Duane Street, Tony's gaze finally lands on the familiar apartment building. It's a simple, straightforward tower of brick and perfectly spaced windows. There's nothing all that impressive about the building, but it still fills Tony with an exhilarating sense of comfort as he gazes up at the place.

 _Home_.

Tony sprints up to the building door, fumbling awkwardly through the front pocket of his backpack for his keys. The door opens just as he reaches it and Tony has to abruptly reverse to avoid colliding with the old man in the doorway. "Oops. Sorry, Mr. Fierstein!" Tony yelps, catching himself against the railing, and almost drops his bag in the process.

The man chuckles unconcernedly. "Where's the fire?" he asks, amused, and one eyebrow arches high on his forehead. "You okay, Tony?"

"Yeah, sorry, just excited," Tony responds with a grin. He finally manages to get his key ring out of his bag and shrugs his backpack onto his shoulders again. "Big day. Gotta get home. See ya later, Mr. F!"

Stepping out of Tony's way, Mr. Fierstein holds the door opened for him. "Say hi for me," the elderly man calls after him as Tony darts through the door. Tony tosses a quick wave over his shoulder to acknowledge the comment and then takes off running across the lobby.

There are faces he recognizes, people grabbing mail from the grid of tiny silver mailboxes and the couple from the twelfth floor taking their trio of corgis out for their usual evening walk. It's still a weird feeling for Tony to know and recognize neighbors, to not be surrounded by a consistently rotating list of questionable people he doesn't dare to talk to.

Waiting for the elevator is maddening, and Tony bounces on his toes, drumming anxious rhythms against his thighs as he watches the door expectantly. The silver doors glide open, and he bolts inside, jamming the button for his floor. It feels like the elevator takes forever to crawl up the shaft, even though it moves so much smoother than any apartment building Tony's lived in for years. He shifts restlessly in the little box, staring at the row of numbers and willing it to go faster.

Tony is practically vibrating with energy by the time the elevator stops with a light _ding_ , and he bolts through the doors before they're even fully open. It's muscle memory now just how far he needs to go down the hallway to reach door 92, and he fumbles his keys into the lock. The deadbolt slides free without a fight - another significant change from what Tony's used to - and he throws the door open eagerly.

The open plan apartment is a sprawling, chaotic mess, a bizarre blend of too many personalities in one space. Textbooks and a sketchpad litter the scratched dining table, along with a vase of brightly-colored flowers. The bookshelf next to the television is crammed with wrinkled paperbacks and DVD cases and decorated with miscellaneous trinkets. There are photos and artwork tacked up all over the walls, school papers and shopping lists stuck to the fridge door with colorful magnets.

"Avengers assemble!" Tony yells as he shuts the door behind him, toeing out of his shoes. He shucks off his backpack, dropping it on the dining table, and immediately unzips it in search of his treasure.

"What's up, Tones?" Davey asks from where he's sitting on the living room sofa. Jack is at the other end of the dining table, embroiled in a game of Uno with his little brother Charlie. Meanwhile, down the short hall on the far side of the apartment, one of the three bedroom doors opens, and the last resident pokes their head out curiously.

"Something wrong?" Spot asks, stepping out of the bedroom with his brow furrowed.

"What? Oh, no, just - everybody c'mere," Tony responds, gesturing excitedly. "I gotta show you something." As the others all make their way over, Tony pulls the carefully folded newspaper from his backpack and then clears a space to spread it out on the tabletop.

"Didn't know they still printed newspapers," Charlie comments in amusement, leaning forward in his chair to see. "Doesn't everyone get the news online?"

"I like the newspaper," Davey says, shrugging.

The eleven-year-old snorts, his grin turning mischievous. "Yeah, but you're an old man." Jack hastily attempts to disguise a laugh as a cough, none-too-successfully. Spot has no such tact, barking a laugh as he steps up to rest a hand on Tony's back.

Hands shaking, Tony rifles through to the middle of the paper and his heart leaps when he finds the right page. "Look!" he says eagerly, gesturing to the photograph and article that dominate the front page of the entertainment section. He's bouncing on his toes as the rest of them peer at the newspaper with interest.

" _Tackling that Winged Cupid_ ," Charlie reads aloud thoughtfully, leaning his elbows onto the table for balance since his crutches are still propped against the back of his chair. "What's that s'posed to mean?"

"Pro'lly supposed to be a pun on a Shakespeare quote," Spot answers. "'Love sees not with the eyes but mind, and so that winged Cupid is made blind,' or something like that. It's from Midsummer. Stupid title for an article, though."

Tony groans dramatically. "Ugh, can we all focus on the important part here?" he whines, tapping the photograph pointedly. "I'm _famous_!"

Body thrumming with energy, Tony lets his gaze drift over the article again. The top of the page holds a large, color photograph of a stage, the entire cast in full costume lined up and beaming. Beneath that, the title is followed by the subtitle of ' _ABT Studio Co Reinvents a Shakespeare Classic_.' The article itself is a fairly standard entertainment review, describing the choreographer's decision to modernize and reinterpret the classical ballet for the pre-professional group, but that's not what sent Tony's head spinning.

There, in the middle of a left-hand column, is a little inserted photo of a male dancer beautifully captured mid-leap. _Him_.

"Well, wouldja look at that," Jack muses, grinning. He reaches across the table to tousle Tony's hair with a laugh. "Our boy right there in the newspaper."

"On page fifteen," Charlie murmurs teasingly, and then ducks, giggling when Tony swats at him.

Spot smooths the paper, squinting at the tiny print, and his lips quirk. " _And though the company is made up of some of the most promising new faces in ballet_ ," he reads out, " _the show is easily stolen by the troupe's Puck, played by seventeen-year-old Antonio Higgins, in his ABT stage debut_."

"Wait, what?" Tony gasps, elbowing his way in to be able to see where Spot's pointing. He'd not read the article passed the introduction paragraph, having been too overwhelmed by seeing his own photograph in the paper. Sure enough, the fourth paragraph is entirely devoted to talking about Tony's performance as the show's troublemaking fairy.

"You didn't know?" Davey asks.

Tony shakes his head, dropping into the nearest chair when his legs suddenly feel like they might not support him anymore. "I mean, the writer was real nice when she was chattin' to us after the show, but she didn't say nothing like that," he says, nodding toward the paper. His eyes catch the single line again, the two words practically glowing off the page in his vision: _Antonio Higgins._ "My name's in the paper," he breathes out, a giddy smile crossing his face.

"'Cause you're good," Spot replies simply. He crouches in front of Tony, those little furrows blooming at the corners of his eyes. "Just like I always toldja. Knew you were gonna make it big, good as you are. Bein' a star on the big ol' stage, remember?" He squeezes Tony's knees bracingly. "Ya did it."

"I did it," Tony echoes in awe. He laughs, throwing himself into Spot's arms, and as he hears the excited cheering from the others, hot tears spark in his eyes. _He did it_.

"You know what this means?" Jack says, grinning. "We're celebrating tonight, folks." Tony and Charlie both whoop excitedly, while Davey and Spot smile indulgently. Celebrations for them consist of evenings of takeaway and movies, ignoring responsibilities in exchange for the comfort and support of people they trust.

It seems like their little makeshift family has had no shortage of things to celebrate over the last year:

The fancy ceremony where the chief of police and the mayor of New York bestowed a service award on Jack for his help in bringing multiple crime lords, including the infamous King of Brooklyn, to justice.

Davey's new job teaching at a prestigious school for special needs children, where his experience being blind helps him understand how to teach in unconventional ways.

Tony successfully passing the tests so he wouldn't have to retake his sophomore year, blazing through them thanks to Davey's tutoring.

Jack and Charlie signing the official adoption papers, making the boy legally Charles Kelly.

The endorsement from Spot's parole officer that allowed him to be accepted into college, where he'll start studying landscape architecture when the semester begins in two weeks.

Davey finally caving and moving in with the rest of them after four months of stubbornness, determined that he didn't want to rush into anything and wanting to prove he could live on his own.

Jack being officially released back to full duty, his physical therapist signing off that his shoulder is completely healed.

Tony landing the position with the ABT Studio Company, and then eventually being cast as Puck in their modernized reinvention of A Midsummer Night's Dream, despite being the youngest in the cast.

And although Tony's not supposed to know about it yet, he knows they'll have more reason to celebrate again soon whenever Jack gets up the nerve to actually do something with the ring that he's been hiding in his office desk for weeks now.

All around, it's been a pretty good year for their patchwork family.

It's a loud, boisterous evening, the five of them sprawled comfortably across the mismatched living room furniture. They eat ungodly amounts of Thai food from the little place around the corner and watch _Captain America_ , which Tony picks because he knows it's Charlie's favorite. By the time the movie finishes, they're all contented and lazy, wrapped in the bliss of 'family time,' a novel experience for all of them.

Before they can go to bed, Jack digs out a pair of scissors and carefully cuts out the newspaper article. He pins it up on the fridge between Charlie's last school test and Spot's college acceptance letter, beaming proudly. "Good job, Tones," Jack says and folds the blond into a hug. The warmth in it makes tears burn at the corners of Tony's eyes, and he hastily blinks them back. "Can't wait to see the show."

"It's so cool," Charlie chips in eagerly. "Everyone at school's gonna freak out when I tell 'em my brother's in the paper. Ya think the story's online too? I wanna save it on my phone so I can show 'em."

 _Brother._ It's not the first time Charlie's called him that, but every time still makes Tony's heart skip. He never had a brother growing up; nowadays, he's sort of got three.

Before Tony can respond, he's pulled into another hug, this time by Davey. "We're all proud of you, Tony," the man says softly. Despite his bony stature, Davey still gives the best hugs, squeezing like he's trying to fold you up against his heart so he can keep you safe. Tony's eyes are damp when he finally extracts himself from Davey's grip, but none of them comment on it as he tries to surreptitiously dry them on the pretense of pushing his hair off his face. Davey smiles knowingly and tugs at one of the curls teasingly. "You should get to bed, superstar," he says. "You look exhausted."

"Pro'lly time for all of us," Jack adds, checking his watch. "'Specially you, short stuff. Gotta get you back on schedule; school starts back up soon." Charlie sticks out his tongue petulantly, but he doesn't argue as he grabs his crutches and heads for his room.

Tony waits for Charlie and Spot to finish getting ready for bed, and then hops in the shower to wash off from rehearsal. No matter how many times he washes, he still always finds glitter whenever he showers, and Tony smirks at the flecks of blue that are slowly becoming a permanent addition to their tub floor. The hot water soothes away the aches in his muscles from the long practice, and Tony is already half-asleep by the time he shuffles to his bedroom.

The bedroom is as much of a hodge-podge blend as the rest of the apartment. A small desk holds Spot's laptop and his new textbooks for the upcoming semester, while the shelf above it is littered with CD cases that vary from classic rock to classical concertos, as well as a glossy leather photo album that houses the little collection of family photos Tony's saved, no longer relegated to a dingy shoebox. A bookshelf in the corner is cramped to bursting, a shadowbox on the wall holds the tiny child-sized pair of ballet slippers, and the windowsill is crowded with an assortment of potted succulents.

Spot is sitting up on the bed, back against the headboard and book open in his lap. He glances over when Tony comes into the room and the corner of his lips quirks fondly. "Ya got poodle hair again," he remarks by way of greeting.

"Shaddup," Tony replies with a huff. He cards a hand through his wet hair and flops lazily onto the bed. "Ya know it's just longer for the show."

"S'cute," Spot says, only half-teasing. "Ya know I like your poodle curls." Closing his book and setting it on the bedside table, Spot slides down to lay facing Tony, propped up on one elbow. "So how's it feel bein' a star?"

Tony smiles, pillowing an arm beneath his head as he looks up at Spot. "Still don't really feel real, sorta," he admits. "Don't think it's gonna 'til the show's ach'lly open, ya know?"

"Eleven days," says Spot, grinning. "Can't wait to see it for real."

"You guys are gonna be super embarrassing, huh?" Tony asks, fighting back a laugh.

Spot snorts, his smile mischievous. "Absolutely," he agrees. He sweeps a hand down Tony's side, letting it settle on his hip. "Gonna tell anyone that'll listen that's _my_ boyfriend up there, lookin' all sexy in those sparkly tights and turnin' dudes into donkeys."

The laugh finally breaks out of Tony at this, curling up in a fit of giggles. "Nothin' about that sentence sounded cool in any way," he points out in amusement.

"Yeah, well, when you ever been cool?" Spot replies, smirking. Tony scoffs and shoves him indignantly. Then Spot's smile softens, familiar creases forming around his eyes. "Don't care if it's cool or not, I'm damned proud anyway," he says, squeezing Tony's hip. "Been watchin' you work so damn hard for this, and I'mma be right there watchin' when youse up on that stage where ya belong."

"My lucky charm," Tony says with a warm smile. He reaches up, brushing his thumb over the single black dot beneath Spot's right eye. " _Mio piccolo punto_."

"Still ain't funny," Spot says but there's no conviction in it as he ducks in to kiss Tony. It's a long and slow kiss, unhurried and contented as they tangle together on top of the sheets, but it still manages to leave Tony breathless. When Spot pulls back, resting his forehead against Tony's, he lets out a soft exhale. "Ya heard anythin' back from your mom?"

Tony sighs and presses his eyes shut, forcing himself not to think about the letter tucked into the back of a drawer in the desk. Even though he'd expected it, getting the call from the rehab center still felt like a knife in the chest. She'd made it three weeks. Three weeks into rehab before she'd disappeared with nothing more than a letter, handwritten in Italian and addressed to ' _mio tesoro,'_ left behind.

The legal emancipation case was easy after that, with the help of Jack and Miss Medda Larkin, even though it'd still hurt more than he expected.

The part that Tony hadn't shared with the courts is the fact that in the envelope full of his mother's explanations and excuses and apologies, there had also been a second slip of paper. Along with an address, the note said, " _I know now that you're better off without me in your life, but you're still my son and I will always love you. If you can ever forgive me, I would love to hear from you."_ Tony was furious in the beginning, resolved to never reach out to her after abandoning him for the second time, but time had let the fire fade into embers.

So while picking up show tickets for the family, Tony reserved one extra and mailed it to the address from the note.

"Nah, not yet," Tony says, aiming for nonchalance. Judging by the way Spot's hand smooths along his side, the act isn't very convincing. "Don't really expect to, honestly," Tony continues with a shrug. "Either she'll come or she won't, but I don't think she'll say anythin'. Not after all of it."

"But you want her to come," Spot says, and it's not even remotely a question. He knows Tony too well for that. Brushing the damp curls off Tony's forehead, he tips his head to press a lingering kiss to his temple. "I hope she does. Think it'd be good for ya both."

Exhaling slowly, Tony slides closer to Spot on the bed, tucking his face into the crook of a shoulder. He breathes in the scent of his skin, that familiar amber spice now always mixed with the smell of soil and grass and earth from his labor job with the city's park maintenance department. They all know Spot could find a better job if he wanted to, but he seems to enjoy it, the manual labor and the plants. And honestly, every time he remembers the pure contentment on Spot's face that night in the botanical gardens, Tony can't think of a better career path for him and his green thumb.

"Might be," Tony agrees quietly. He lifts a hand, tracing his fingertips around the scar on Spot's stomach that had once been a bullet wound. "But if not, I'll be okay."

"Course ya will," Spot says, no room for argument in his voice. "Strongest person I know." His coarse, calloused palm is hot against Tony's skin as he rubs his side. "After all, takes a real badass to go nail a dance audition just days after a'most gettin' shot."

Tony snorts. "Didn't exactly nail it," he reminds him. It hadn't been his best performance, his balance still a little bit off after being hit in the head a few times and the stress of the whole week. He hadn't gotten the spot with the fall tour group, but he'd caught the director's interest enough that they told him to audition again in the spring. It was that audition that got him into ABT's junior troupe and eventually into the role that landed him in this morning's newspaper.

"Yeah, well, blamin' that on the drug lord thing," Spot says indifferently. He touches Tony's cheek gently, outlining the pale scar that's the only physical reminder of that day. "I still know youse the best dancer in New York."

"You're biased," Tony replies with a fond grin.

"Hey, I'mma proper ballet critic, thank ya. Very professional, take my job serious, and I know a good dancer when I see 'im," Spot says, eyes sparkling with a hidden laugh. "And youse so damn good, couldn't help fallin' in love with ya. And we both know, you try again for that tour spot this year, youse gonna get it."

Biting his lip, Tony threads his hand with Spot's. "Ain't gonna," he says. Spot's eyebrows lift, surprised, and the pair of silver barbell piercings in the left one - a joke for Tony's last birthday that he's never bothered to remove - catch the lamplight. "Been thinkin' about it, and I'm gonna stay local, least for now," Tony elaborates. "I mean, we're gonna do a li'l bit of touring with the show, but I don't wanna be gone all the time. I got a good thing here."

"Tony," Spot says, his voice taking on that quiet intensity that's so him. "Don't go givin' up on what you want for me. Told ya, we'll make it work, remember?"

"It's not that," Tony counters. "It's - all of it. You and Jack and Dave and Charlie." He quirks his lips wryly. "Spent the last couple years plannin' on touring, hoping I could find a place like home out there somewhere and wantin' to get away from my mom's stuff. But now I got a home and a family here that I don't wanna leave yet."

Spot's gaze softens and he brushes a kiss onto Tony's wrist. "Youse kinda a sap, anyone toldja that?"

Laughing, Tony rolls his eyes. "Yeah, you're one to talk," he says sarcastically. For all his mock-severity, Spot's a complete and total softie underneath it.

The shorter boy smirks in response but doesn't deny it. Reaching behind him, he flips off the bedside lamp and settles down into the bed. Spot wraps his arms around Tony, curling himself around the taller boy's spine, and nuzzles into the curls at Tony's nape. "Well so long as it's really what you want, I ain't gonna complain about you stayin'," Spot murmurs against his skin.

Hugging Spot's arm against his chest, Tony smiles and closes his eyes. "Love ya too, grump," he says.

Spot's laugh is a gust of warm air on Tony's neck. "Go to sleep, diva," he says, but he squeezes Tony's hand in acknowledgment. Tony grins and lets himself unwind into the familiar comfort of Spot's embrace.

For all his years of running, searching desperately for something, it turns out Tony just needed to cross the Brooklyn Bridge. He's finally found everything he never knew he wanted; a stable place to live, caring parents, an adoring brother, and a man who loves him.

Racetrack has stopped running; Tony Higgins has found home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your guys' unending support in this project. Like all of my Newsies works, it ended up becoming much more of an undertaking than I anticipated when I started, but I'm hoping that it was worth the effort. 
> 
> That said, I know this is going to upset some people, but I'm going to be taking a break from writing chaptered fanfiction for a while. I've had the greatest time being part of this fandom, but the downside to that is that I've spent so much time playing around in the Newsies sandbox that I've let my original fiction fall by the wayside (as in, I've hardly touched it over the last two years.) I'll probably still pop in and post oneshots here and there, but as far as the long chaptered works like this, I just don't have the time to dedicate to them and my own works, on top of school and work. 
> 
> Thanks again for your incredible support and encouragement; you would not believe just how much you guys have helped me, particularly when things were rough IRL last year. <3 #newsiesforever
> 
> \- Artie


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